


it'll be over (and I'll still be asking when)

by JBS_Forever



Category: Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Angst, But mostly angst, Hurt Peter, Insomnia, Tony has questionable means of helping people, and humor, because i had a minor meltdown, re-upload under new account with the same name
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-15
Updated: 2019-06-05
Packaged: 2020-01-13 13:15:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18469708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JBS_Forever/pseuds/JBS_Forever
Summary: They are fighting a one-story tall mechanical robot in the middle of Brooklyn when Peter swings over its head and says, “You guys ever seeThe Incredibles?”It starts like this.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Re-upload because I had an anxiety-induced meltdown and deleted my account (and regretted it almost immediately, but it was too late to save). This is a new account with the same name, so if you'd still like to follow me, this will be the place. I'm working on re-uploading my stories. I hope you'll stick with me while I get everything back to normal <3 Thanks for all the support and encouragement. So many people have reached out to make sure I'm okay and it means more to me than I could ever express.

 

They are fighting a one-story tall mechanical robot in the middle of Brooklyn when Peter swings over its head and says, “You guys ever see _The Incredibles_?”

Through the comm system, Rhodey sighs. “I know I said this before, Tony,” he says. “But _Jesus Christ._ ”

“Yeah, he's young, I get it,” Tony says. “You got a point, kid?”

“Remember that thing at the end?” Peter asks, after he's attached himself to a building above the bot. He peers closely at the mechanics of the thing, the motors, the solenoids, the belts and pulleys. “The omnidroid,” he continues. “Its only weakness was itself. The only way to destroy it was with its own tech.”

Tony clicks his tongue. Peter shoots another web, hoping to get a closer glance, but before he can, the robot changes tactics and sends a beam of red light at him. It slices through his only anchor, sends him tumbling to the ground.

“Huh,” says Tony. “That's actually a smart idea.”

“That's an _idea_ brought to you by a _Disney_ film,” Rhodey says.

Peter rolls to his feet. The air crackles in warning. Fear tingles along his spine. He webs to the wall behind him and yanks himself up just in time to avoid a laser slicing through his stomach.

Tony says, “It's a Pixar film. Get it together, Rhodey. Go catch that thing at its twelve. If you two can keep its attention on you for another minute, I'll get in there and rip it apart.”

“Are we actually doing this?” Rhodey asks. “Like, for _real_ doing this?”

“I think at this point we're gonna look dumb if we don't.”

Peter beams. He soars across the spaces between streets, trying to contain the robot to one place. He doesn't need to work to catch its attention. He already has it. Lasers and shock waves and everything in its arsenal wanting to tear him to pieces. One blow hits him in the back before he can dodge it. In his momentary disorientation, another grazes his leg.

“Shit.” He tumbles down into the alley below and groans, lying still for a moment to catch his breath. He feels lightheaded, high with adrenaline and lack of sleep.

“Mr. Stark?” he says to the sky. “Not that I'm rushing you, but how long do you think this, uh, 'ripping apart' thing is gonna take?”

“What did I say about calling me Mr. Stark, kid? You make me feel old. And keep your spandex on, I'm almost done.”

“Okay, cause, I thought we were gonna be best friends and all, but now it feels like this thing really wants to kill me.”

“Maybe it's mad you compared it to a kid's movie,” Rhodey says.

Peter staggers to his feet. “Hey, lots of adults like that movie. Have you ever seen it?”

“No. And I don't plan to.”

“Your loss. It's great.”

“Distractions, guys!” Tony says, but it's in this momentary break that he is able to tear an arm off the robot and drive it through its belly. The thing crumples after that, just shuts down and collapses in the middle of the road, and Peter runs toward it, letting out a whoop of triumph.

“Holy _shit_!” he exclaims. “I can't believe that actually worked.”

Tony lands next to him. “Well,” he says. “Gold stars for everyone. I'm calling it. Let's go home.”

“You're not even here," Rhodey says, touching down on his other side.

The faceplate of the Iron Man suit opens, as if Tony's ready to argue and prove him wrong, but Rhodey is right. There's nothing inside.

“Busted.”

Peter deflates a little, caught with the same disappointment he always is when the suit is empty. He shouldn't be surprised, really, but for some childish reason, his victory feels a little less exhilarating.

He frowns. This close to the speakers, he's almost sure those are waves he hears crashing against the shore. “Are you at the beach?”

“No, I'm at a very important business meeting. You guys got this covered from here? Great. Good. The CEO needs more sunscreen. Gotta go.”

FRIDAY's voice takes over then, announces, “Mr. Stark is no longer connected” and the suit straightens up and flies off without another word.

Rhodey grumbles something under his breath and turns to Peter. “You all right?”

“Yeah,” Peter says, still fizzling with excitement and energy despite his momentary setback. “Yup. You?”

“Uh huh. Okay, let's get out of here, because I am _not_ cleaning this up.”

Peter huffs out a laugh.

It's not until later he finds out Rhodey wasn't there either.

No, he's not surprised.

He never really is.

\---

When it comes down it, the truth of the matter is this: most of the times Peter is fighting alongside Iron Man, – which has, if he's in the business of being honest, been all of three times since declining the Avengers invite – no one is actually inside the suit. This is a small detail he leaves out of stories when he tells them to Ned, because, Tony or no Tony, Peter is still technically hanging out with Iron Man and that in itself is cool enough.

Disheartening sometimes, but he certainly doesn't need anyone to know that.

“You were all over the news!” Ned says at school. Peter glances around the hall and shushes him, but Ned doesn't seem to hear. “You were like, _swoosh_ , I'll distract it, and then Iron Man was like, _pew pew,_ let me dismember this thing and _stab it to death_ with its own leg.”

“Shh, Ned,” Peter says again. He can't fight the grin taking over his face. “Also, that was totally my idea.”

“Dude! _Dude._ It's just like the –”

“Omnidroid?”

“Yes!” Ned lets out a long, dramatic sigh that makes Peter smile again. “Your life is so cool. Your life makes _my_ life cool. I'd just like to thank you for this opportunity and start my three-part appreciation speech by saying I'm –”

But Peter never hears any of the parts. At that moment, Ned's voice is drowned out by a high pitch ringing so loud it stops Peter in his tracks, has him shoving his hands over his ears as he spins, looking for the source. His eyes blur. His head vibrates. Everyone keeps moving, oblivious to the noise, unaware of the sound ripping Peter apart. It grows and grows. It burns. It stings.

“Peter!”

And then, just like that, it stops. A hand on his shoulder shakes him until he feels like he's going to throw up. He reaches out blindly, rests his palm on the wall.

“Peter, are you okay?”

“I –” Peter breathes out for a second. When he looks up again, he's in a different place, in a small alcove away from wandering glances. “Whoa.”

“What happened?” Ned asks, still gripping him. His expression is pinched tight with worry.

“I don't know. There was this – this ringing. You didn't hear it?”

“No. Are you sure you're okay?”

“Yeah, I'm okay.” Peter tries to prove this by straightening up. His knees wobble under his weight. “You really didn't hear that?”

“I didn't hear anything,” Ned says. “Maybe you're having like a spider reaction. Did you know they can hear through the hairs on their legs? They don't have ears but they can feel vibrations.”

“I'm not hearing through hairs on my legs, Ned. And we need to talk about you self-researching. You know I'm not _actually_ a spider, right?”

“But can you talk to them?”

“No, Ned.”

“What about telepathically?”

“Still no.”

Peter pulls him out of their secluded hiding spot and back into the flow of students. His nerves are sizzling, a sense of dread tingling through his limbs. Ned is still staring.

“Stop looking at me like that, man,” Peter says. “I'm fine. I'm probably just tired. I didn't get much sleep last night.”

And this, despite the unconvinced expression on Ned's face, is the truth. For the most part. Peter had been too hyped after the fight to settle down. Had stared at the ceiling and counted seconds as they passed by. One, two, three, four.

(but what he doesn't tell Ned is last night was the not the first night. What he doesn't tell Ned is he actually hasn't gotten much sleep in a little over a week.)

“You promise you're all right?”

Peter presses his fingers into his temples. “Yeah, of course.”

(what he doesn't tell Ned is this: every time the Iron Man suit opens, there's no one inside. There never has been.)

“Let's get to class.”

\- - -

It starts like normal. Peter is swinging through Queens, tracking down a man who is, honest-to-god, dressed like a bee. A _bee_. Black and yellow shirt and pants, these weird, metal wings on his back. He doesn't have enough wingspan to get himself higher than thirty feet off the ground, but he's diving from the tops of small buildings like it's his job.

He's not exactly a threat. A nuisance, at his greatest, but he's been stealing jewelry from some high-end stores and that's enough to get Peter's attention.

“God, I hate bees,” Peter says. “Karen, what are those wings made of?”

“I'm detecting a variety of materials ranging from impregnated fabric to aluminum,” Karen informs him.

“What's the structural integrity of those things? Just from my own view, they look like I could blow on them and they'd fall apart.”

“You're half-correct. A strong gust of wind would knock the bee from its flight. I suspect a hit of any kind would damage the wings completely.”

“Please never call him a bee again, Karen.”

“Is that not what he is?”

“No. I mean, kind of, but that's not – oh, forget it.” Peter swings himself into a path parallel to the guy. “Hey, dude,” he calls. “Got a call from pest control. Looks like it's time for you to go.”

It's all so ridiculous. The spider chasing the bee. The man spares him one glance before he zips off in another direction. Peter shoots a web and banks hard, pulling himself quickly to make the sharp turn he's set himself up for.

He doesn't know what happens. Shots like these are simple, as easy as breathing, but his web misses its target and suddenly he's swinging too close to the ground, his feet brushing along pavement. He panics, shoots another web, misses that target too, and catches his hip on the corner of a shop.

He falls. He slams into the ground. For a few moments, he knows nothing.

Then Karen's voice fades into his thoughts. “ –ecting contusions – there are no si – okay, Peter? Peter? Peter?”

“Oh my god.” Peter moans and brings a hand to his forehead. “M'okay. Please, just … can you lower your audio?”

Peter feels like his skull is cracking apart. When Karen speaks again, it's so quiet he can barely hear it.

“You are beginning to draw a crowd, Peter,” she says. “Would you like me to call for medical services?”

“What? No, no. I just got the wind knocked out of me is all. I'm fine.”

And with that, Peter uses his remaining adrenaline and pushes himself up, swings his way to the top of the train and hitches a ride home.

\- - -

“You've gone viral, kid,” is the first thing Tony says to him over the phone. “I can't decide if that's good or bad, but you know what they say about publicity.”

Peter sighs into his pillow. “That all publicity is good publicity? I'm gonna go out on a limb and say that's probably not true.”

“You'd probably be right. Hey, listen, though, if this is the path you wanna take, I'm certainly not one to judge, but maybe lay low while my name is plastered all over your suit? When you look bad, I look bad.”

“Uh. Yeah, yeah. Okay, sure.”

“That was a joke, kid. Are you having issues with the suit? Need me to make some upgrades?”

“Upgrades?”

And Peter can't explain it, but he is overwhelmed with the sudden urge to scream at Tony, to yell until his throat hurts. He hasn't seen Tony in months. Aside from the occasional call and the even less occasional visits Peter has made to headquarters, he and Tony have barely interacted.

(and this is what he doesn't tell Ned. That Iron Man might be there, but Tony? Tony is not. He never is.)

Instead, Peter swallows hard. “No. I don't need you –” Pain flares along his spine. He grinds his teeth together. “It's fine. I just made a mistake.”

“A mistake,” Tony repeats. “Uh huh. All right. Bring the suit by on Friday. I'll have Happy pick you up.”

“Mr. Stark, really, it's okay, I don't need –”

“See you soon, kid.”

The call ends. Peter is blinded by defeat, strong and raw. So much so that he doesn't realize May has been standing in his doorway until she clears her throat. He pushes himself up on his elbows.

“Hey, May,” he says.

She lingers silently. It's the only clue Peter needs to know she's watched the videos.

“Let me see,” she says finally.

“May –”

“Peter.”

Peter is too tired to argue. He lets May sit on the edge of his bed and fold his shirt up. Karen had done a scan on him before he took the suit off, told him about the contusions on his back, but Peter hasn't seen them yet. He only gets a vague idea of how ugly they must be when May takes in a sharp breath of air.

“It's not as bad as it looks,” Peter offers weakly.

“Does it hurt?”

“A little. Not that much.”

“I'll get you some ice,” says May. “I want you to take it easy tonight. I'll order in Thai. You want Thai? I'll get Thai.”

Peter knows that tone. The May “trying not to freak out” tone.

He just nods. “Thai sounds great.”

The Spider-Man thing is still weird between them, resting in a place that hasn't quite settled. May doesn't like it. She's made that much clear. But she also knows Peter is still going to do it. _He_ has made that much clear. So they tried to come to terms with him taking time off every week and being back in before curfew (a new, later curfew, albeit a curfew just the same). He gave May all the numbers she'd need to get in contact with Happy and Tony in case something happened. She gave him a few ultimatums, all of which he agreed. And now they are here, May waiting up for at night until she hears his window click as it closes. May constantly checking in to see where he'll be.

He knows it's because she's worried one day he won't come home. So he does everything she wants him to do to make her feel better about it.

(but when it comes down to it, on the days Peter is engulfed with fear, he worries one day _she_ won't come home. He fights to make sure that never happens.)

“Thanks, May,” he says.

She looks at him for a moment, and it seems to Peter she's looking past all his lies. But then she says, “Get some rest. We gotta start planning for your birthday soon and you're gonna need all your strength for everything Ned wants to do. I'm pretty sure he's planning on renting a zoo. Lord help us all.”

Peter feigns a laugh, but he knows then she's not seeing past the most important lie.

There are three weeks until Peter's sixteenth birthday. He's never been less excited about anything in his life.

\- - -

_**guy in the chair:** _

hey, you okay??

 

_**guy in the chair:** _

saw the video. are your web shooters broken? do you need me to help you fix them?

 

_**guy in the chair:** _

just talked to May. she said you were alive. see you at school tomorrow? I'll bring you the homework if you don't feel like going.

 

_**does whatever a spider can:** _

I'm okay. see you tomorrow

 

_**does whatever a spider can:** _

also, stop changing my name in here

 

 _ **does whatever a spider can**_ has changed his nickname to **_PeterMan_**

 

 _ **guy in the chair**_ has changed **_PeterMan_** 's nickname to _**stole flash's car once**_

 

_**stole flash's car once:** _

I hate you

\- - -

Peter's pain fades as the night stretches. The sky outside turns black, filters with light blue. Seconds tick by increasingly slow.

This is insomnia. It's lying in bed, counting dots on the ceiling, wondering why you're not asleep. _Are_ you asleep? Have you ever been asleep? All night long you're thinking, there goes thirty minutes, there goes more. If you sleep now you'll get five hours. Four. Three.

This is insomnia. Feeling like you're dying, feeling like everything is right out of reach. You're a shell of yourself, moving and talking and breathing, but open the faceplate and there's nothing inside.

When Peter's alarm goes off, he's still awake.

“Dude, I thought you were dead or something,” Ned says later while Peter rummages through his locker. Peter grabs a book he doesn't need and stuffs it into his backpack, then pauses. Ned barrels on through.

“I saw that video and it looked horrible. What happened? Did one of the web shooters malfunction? Did your web fluid give out?”

Peter blinks at his books. “What? No, uh … I just … ”

“Peter?”

“I just slipped,” Peter says. He returns the book, searches for the right one.

“Are you okay?”

“I'm fine. Why do you keep asking me that?”

“Uh, because you just put back your Biology book even though you're about to go to Biology?”

“Oh.” Peter rubs his eyes. “Sorry, I didn't sleep well last night.”

“You haven't been sleeping well a lot. Is something going on?”

“Nothing's going on.” Peter grabs the book again and clutches it to his chest, nudging his locker door closed with his elbow.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I'm sure. I'm just tired. Can we talk about something else?”

There must be something in his tone, because Ned eyes him up and down, his lips twisting unsurely. He backs off though, tries for his best impression of optimism and says, “Hey, I've got a science question.”

“Okay.”

“If Thor's holding his hammer and I lift him up, does that mean I technically lifted his hammer? Am I then worthy?”

Peter laughs so hard his eyes water.

\- - -

He falls again. It's after school that Friday and he's out patrolling and the god awful bee guy is back.

“Bro, you are really ruining my day,” Peter says. “I don't know what your fascination with bees is, but let me be the first to tell you it's a little creepy.”

The guy doesn't answer with words. He aims what looks like a garden hose at Peter and sprays a thick, yellow liquid at him while he flies past. Peter's reflexes are a little too slow from lack of sleep. He ends up coated with the goop.

“Ew.” He spreads his fingers apart and watches the substance drip toward his knuckles. “What is this? Karen?”

“It appears to be a mixture of honey and some kind of bug repellent,” Karen says.

“Seriously? Look, I'm all for method acting, but this is insane.”

“Peter, I'm afraid this insanity has some sense to it. The little bit that has already seeped into the fabric is shorting out some of the circuits.”

“Shit. Bee guy isn't as dumb as I thought.”

“I recommend you get out of the suit as soon as you can. I cannot say for sure what will happen when the repellent reaches your skin.”

But this is insomnia. Feeling far away, like you can't reach anything, like nothing can reach _you_. So Peter makes the stupid choice because he feels invincible, he feels light and airy and like maybe he's asleep.

He stays in the suit and he follows the guy through the city.

“Peter, I really think you should –”

“I know what you think, Karen, but how about I catch this guy and then we can get this thing to a dry cleaner, okay? Is everything still working?”

“There are a few systems glitching. Your web shooter options are not accessible.”

“That's fine, I don't need them.” Peter scans the skyline, making sure the guy doesn't disappear. “Er, don't tell Mr. Stark I said that. It's not that I don't appreciate them or anything –”

A beeping interrupts. Karen says, “Incoming call from Happy Hogan. Should I reroute to your heads-up display?”

“Oh crap,” Peter says. “Yeah, yeah, patch it through.”

Happy doesn't wait for a greeting. “Let's make this short,” he says. “I don't care where you are right now. I'm gonna be at your place in thirty minutes. Be there before I am.”

“Can do,” Peter says, panting as he swings between buildings. “See you then.”

It's good Happy hangs up when he does, because it's here that Peter shoots a web and latches onto a pipe instead of a sturdy, weight-bearing wall. The pipe snaps as soon as Peter starts his descent, and then Peter keeps descending, hitting the curb before he even realizes he's fallen.

It doesn't have the impact it did yesterday, but it hurts nonetheless.

“Shit, shit, shit.” Peter cradles his arm against his stomach. He's landed in an alley but he doesn't know if any cameras captured his journey down. His skin is starting to burn.

“Peter, you need to get out of the suit,” Karen says.

“Yeah, I know. And that's great and all, Karen, but I don't exactly have any clothes.”

“Would you like me to contact Happy and ask him to bring you something to wear?”

“No. Look, I'm going home right now,” Peter says. He scrambles up and leans against the dumpster next to him for support. “Give me the fastest route. And we really gotta talk about you and Ned taking things upon yourself. Initiative is great sometimes, but you guys are going about it wrong.”

“I'll make a note,” Karen says. “Mapping out a route now.”

Peter unsticks himself from the steel container. He grimaces. “So gross.”

“Approaching vehicle straight ahead.”

\- - -

Happy doesn't make a comment when Peter slides into the car carrying a plastic, oozing bag from Macy's containing his suit and the gross mixture of liquids covering it. He just looks in the rear-view mirror, eyes the bag, eyes Peter, and slides his sunglasses on.

“Buckle up.”

Fatigue settles in Peter's bones. Now that he's no longer moving, his body feels heavy, like someone has turned all his blood to lead. He knows Happy doesn't care, but he finds himself explaining what happened anyway.

“ – and then he sprayed me with this stuff and Karen said it was short-circuiting some of the systems. I'm sure Mr. Stark can fix it. But it was weird, cause whatever bug stuff he used was actually hurting toward the end. You think that has something to do with the spider bite? Am I like susceptible to bug repellent?”

“Don't know,” Happy says. “Is that what you were doing before I got here?”

“Huh? Uh, yeah. I made sure I was back when you said though.”

Peter hears it in his own voice the same time Happy does. The waver. The shakiness that makes him sound like he's about to cry. He could fall asleep right now and never wake up. But he won't. This is insomnia. He can't reach anything. Nothing can reach him.

Happy glances his way.

Peter laughs nervously and swipes at his face. “Anyway, I hope Mr. Stark can clean it out.”

“I'm sure he can,” says Happy.

Peter toes the bag at his feet. It makes an uncomfortable squishing noise.

“So gross,” he mutters. Happy snorts.

\- - -

The suit has mostly dried by the time they pull up the compound. Happy leads him through lobbies of people and into the elevator. Peter has never been anywhere except the first and second floors of this building, so when Happy scans his keycard and hits the button to send them down, Peter nearly stumbles at the dizziness that washes over him.

“Where are we going?”

“To one of the sub-basement labs.”

He is grateful Happy is too busy typing into his phone to notice that he's bouncing on the heels of his feet. He didn't even _know_ there was a sub-basement here, let alone the multiple levels of it that appear on the screen above the door.

“Don't touch anything,” Happy says as they step out into a bright hallway. Peter's mouth drops open. There are tons of labs here, filled with people in white coats and different colored scrubs. Each window they pass shows him a number of experiments. Peter is sure he's just stepped into geek heaven.

Then Happy steers him into a lab with only one person inside. Their back is toward them when they walk in, but when they turn around, Peter actually _does_ stumble.

“Hey, Dr. Banner,” Happy says casually.

It's not that Peter has never met Bruce Banner before. He has, in fact, seen him more in the last few months than he's seen Tony, which isn't saying much, but the admiration hasn't faded yet. Every time Peter is standing in front of him, he feels like his world is exploding in the best way possible.

“D-Dr. Banner,” he greets, giving an awkward salute. He drops his hand quickly.

Bruce smiles. “Nice seeing you again, Peter. Please, call me Bruce.”

“You cool if I leave the kid here with you until Tony comes down?” Happy asks. “He should be done in a minute.”

“Of course,” says Bruce. “I always enjoy Peter's company.”

Peter smashes the plastic of the bag with a loud crunch. Happy scrunches his nose.

“Set that down somewhere,” he says, motioning around the space. “But don't touch it again until Tony can figure out why it was hurting you.”

Peter nods and drops the bag onto a stool. It bobbles back and forth, stuck in an odd, morphed form. Bruce gives it a curious look as Happy departs.

“The suit was hurting you?”

The question is just strange enough to Peter that it doesn't immediately process in his sluggish mind. “The –? Oh. No, no. I got sprayed with some weird stuff from this guy dressed like a bee. It's … a long story.”

“A bee? That sounds fun. Mind if I take a look?”

“It's all yours.”

“What did he spray you with?” Bruce asks as he peels the bag open, his gloved hands reaching to unfold the fabric. It crunches with the movement, making Peter feel nauseated.

“Karen said it was a mixture of honey and some kind of bug repellent. It fried some of the systems.”

“Interesting.” Bruce lays the suit down on the counter next to him and slides his gloves off, slipping on a new, clean pair. “Do you mind if I – uh, if I look at you?”

“Look at me?”

“Your skin,” Bruce says. “I've just now realized how weird that sounds. I mean to say, can I – well, would you mind if I made sure –”

One of Peter's favorite parts about Bruce is this. How nervous and small he seems to make himself sometimes. Like he's so opposed to being anything close to the Hulk. Polar opposites. Opposing forces. Hulk is seen by everyone. Bruce doesn't like to be seen by _anyone_.

“It's okay, Dr. Banner. You can look.”

This is, of course, when Tony makes his entrance. A silent, smooth entrance. Where Bruce is small, Tony is big. Not Hulk big, but personality big. Big enough to change the air of a room when he walks in.

And yeah, Peter still gets that swooping feeling when he sees Tony. The rush of adrenaline at being near an idol. This time, though, it's tinged with that unexplained anger from before, watered down by weariness. Peter is too tired to be mad.

“What are we looking at?” Tony asks. He spots the suit and arches an eyebrow. “And what the _hell_ is that?”

Peter's stomach drops. “Um, it's – well, I –”

“He got sprayed with honey and bug repellent,” Bruce says. “It's a long story.”

“Not long enough,” says Tony. He claps Peter on the shoulder. “Give me the cliff notes version for now. What do I need to fix?”

“I'm not entirely sure,” Peter says. “Karen has a report of everything that was damaged.”

“Mhmm. Right. Okay, and can she also tell me why you've been falling? You're trending again, just FYI.” To prove this, Tony pulls his phone from his pocket and extends it out to Peter. There's a video of him from earlier, the one he hoped no one had caught.

“Shit,” he mutters, and feels his ears go red. “Oh. Shoot. I'm sorry. I didn't –”

“We're all adults here,” says Tony. “Well, two of us are adults. So, watch your gosh dang language. It offends Bruce's sensitive side.”

Bruce purses his lips. “Cute.”

“Not in front of the kid, Banner. Let's keep it professional outside the bedroom.” Tony steps away from him, starts fumbling through a drawer. Bruce takes this as his moment to look at Peter, quietly asking him to roll his sleeves up. Peter does.

“I have a fun idea,” says Tony. “After Bruce checks you out, let me have one of my guys check you out too. An actual doctor.”

“Excuse you,” Bruce says, twisting Peter's arm gently to prod at his skin. “I _am_ a doctor.”

“Not a medical one.”

“I have more PhDs than you, Mr. Playboy.”

“Do you though?”

Bruce falters at this, sends a halfhearted glare at Tony. “Certainly more than your 'medical doctors.'”

“I don't appreciate the air quotes in your voice.”

“I don't appreciate … your face.”

“Smooth. You have the kid write that one for you?”

Peter glances between them, grinning like a madman. He's never heard his two mentors do their back-and-forth banter before. It swallows him now in absolute giddiness.

“Let's cut to the chase,” Tony says. “You haven't been sleeping.”

Peter shifts his gaze back to Bruce only to discover Bruce is looking at him. He startles and tries to remember what Tony just said.

“What? I – what? Me? I've been … I've been sleeping.”

Tony makes a face. “Ooh. You wanna try that lie again?”

“I'm … I'm not lying.”

“Banner, you're the one with all the PhDs. What do you think?”

Peter is not too tired to miss the way Bruce's eyes go wide as he shoots Tony a look of pure exasperation. He takes his glasses off and folds them, fiddling with them a few seconds.

“I don't want to overstep my boundaries, but – you really don't look good, Pete.”

“I ...” The situation has Peter so flabbergasted he doesn't know what to say. The giddiness fades. It's an ambush. An attack from both sides. “I mean, I've had some insomnia, but it's not like a big de–”

“How long?” Tony asks. He opens another drawer.

“Um, a couple weeks, I guess?”

Tony lifts his eyebrows and shares a glance with Bruce, who, to Peter's surprise, looks more concerned than he did before.

“Peter,” Bruce says. “When is the last time you slept?”

Peter gapes at him. “I don't know why it –”

And there it is again, the anger, the urge to shout until he's got nothing left inside.

(why should Peter open the faceplate now when there's never anything behind it?)

It doesn't matter. So what if Peter has slipped a few times? So what if he hasn't been sleeping well? Where was Tony when the warehouse collapsed? When Peter was alone and afraid? Where was he when Peter tried to reach out? Over and over again?

(he won't look inside. Tony is never there. He never has been.)

“Banner, can you put the suit in the sink? I'm gonna need to find something to clean that gunk off.”

Bruce opens his mouth like he wants to protest but nothing comes out. He just sidesteps Tony, collects the material in his hands, and moves to deposit it. Peter watches him because his cheeks are turning too hot and he thinks he might not be able to hold all this frustration inside if he spares a glimpse at Tony now.

Tony, though, is moving closer to him. And because Peter isn't looking, because his reactions are still too drowsy, it takes him way too long to realize something sharp has pierced his upper arm.

When he finally does process it, he jumps away so fast he knocks over a stool. “Hey!”

Bruce is back in a flash, grabbing him quickly. “Tony, what the hell?”

“Oops,” Tony says, a little too innocently. He tosses a needle onto the counter. “My hand slipped.”

Peter's heart is racing. He wonders briefly why his spider-sense didn't alert him to danger before he remembers that, despite Tony being a little less than present in Peter's life, Peter still _trusts_ him. Well, _trusted_ him. After this, he needs to reevaluate his priorities.

He squirms out of Bruce's grip and backs himself into the open drawers. They slam closed. “What – what is that? What did – oh my god, what did you give me?”

“Calm down,” says Tony. “It's just a little sedative. You're injured and you need to sleep.”

“A sedative? Why … why would – you could have _asked_ me!”

“Would you have said yes?”

“No!” Peter says. “But still!”

“Jesus Christ, Tony,” says Bruce. He steps into Peter's line of vision and cups his chin, looks into his eyes. “You can't just shoot people up with drugs.”

“I think I just did. We should probably move him next door to a bed. He's not gonna last much longer.”

“He's a minor,” Bruce says. “Not to mention it's just unethical.”

“I'll call his aunt. You guys are both being a little dramatic. I'm not an idiot. It's not like he's gonna overdose. I do know how to administer shots.”

“That doesn't mean you should!” Bruce releases Peter's face and takes hold of his arm. “All right, Peter, let's get you to a bed.”

“No. No.” Peter shakes his head. He can already feel the sedative working. His head is swimming. Black is creeping along the edge of his eyes. “'s … I was … ”

It happens in a blink. His remaining strength drains out of him like someone has hit a button and released whatever was holding it in place. His legs crumble. A set of hands catch him and lower him down before he can fall. He thinks they belong to Bruce, but they must belong to Tony, because the last thing he hears, close to his ear, as close to remorse as he's ever known it, is Tony's voice saying, “Sorry, kid.”

Everything goes dark.

(this is what he doesn't tell Ned: the suits are always empty. Tony is never there.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No matter how long it has been since I wrote this, having Tony stab Peter with a sedative still feels like the most out of character thing I've ever had him do. Still, it's important to the plot, so I hope you'll ignore how odd it is. I find it kind of amusing now anyway :)
> 
> Thanks for reading, or re-reading if you've been here before. <3


	2. Chapter 2

He comes to reality in stages. At first, slowly, enough to know where he is but not  _why_  he is. Metal creaks. Someone murmurs something that buzzes through his ears. And then, he comes the rest of the way back, all at once. Stomach churning, head pounding, clammy and too hot. He feels miserable, worse than he did before he went under. He pushes himself into a sitting position and trails his gaze across the room until he spots a familiar figure sitting at a table.

“Dr. Banner?”

Bruce jumps a little, lifting his face from the microscope in front of him. “You're awake,” he says, surprised. The wheels on his stool scrape across the floor as he rolls closer. Peter winces.

“Er, yeah.”

“That's … huh.” Bruce's eyebrows furrow together. “Are you okay?”

“You mean besides my pride?”

Peter is going for a joke, but Bruce's frown only deepens. It's not funny, he knows, but the alternative is worse. The alternative is that Tony drugged him and didn't even stick around to deal with the consequences.

(and why would he? Tony is nothing more than an empty suit. Make the calls and disappear. Save the day and disappear.)

Peter's eyes sting. He licks his lips and tries to keep his voice from shaking. “I'm okay.”

“You have nothing to be ashamed of, Peter,” Bruce says. “What Tony did wasn't okay. It was beyond not okay.”

“No, no, I know … I just ...” Peter clenches his hands into loose fists, breathes in deep and lets it out. He's still so tired. Mad and exhausted and spent. It has taken the fight out of him. He couldn't yell at Tony now even he wanted to.

“How long was I sleeping?”

“Not long. About an hour, which is unusual, since Tony was under the impression you'd be under a lot longer. Do you have an enhanced metabolism?”

“If you mean am I hungry all the time, then the answer is yes.”

“You've never been checked out, have you?” Bruce asks. “After the initial bite?”

“Um, I mean, kind of. Not for like, non-human things though. I got really sick after it first happened. Passed out a couple times. The usual. It's how I found out my skin is kind of tougher now. One of the nurses had a hard time taking my blood. Couldn't get the needle in. Which I guess must not be that hard anymore, cause Mr. Stark didn't seem to have a problem.”

For Peter's benefit, Bruce ignores the last part. He mutters, “That's interesting,” and opens a cupboard door. “Would you consider letting me look at you sometime? And … I did the same thing again, didn't I? I just mean if you would ever like to be checked out. It could get us some answers as to why that toxin was irritating you. And we can make sure you're all good and nothing funky is going on. Of course, we would do it another day. I think you've been violated enough.”

Peter gives him a weary smile. It's not funny. It's just better.

“Where is he?” Peter asks.

“Tony?”

“Yeah.”

“I kicked him out. I'm sure he's moping somewhere. Pepper gave him an earful.” Bruce brings down a blood pressure cuff and unfolds it. He shifts in front of Peter and peels the Velcro apart. “Can I check your vitals? FRIDAY was monitoring you while you slept, but I'd like to check now that you're more upright.”

“Sure.” Peter swings his legs over the side of the bed. It's almost embarrassing how much effort it takes, how quickly it washes away the little amount of energy he gained since waking up. “Wait, FRIDAY was monitoring me?”

Bruce wraps the cuff around his arm and starts inflating it. “Not that I'm condoning Tony's behavior, but he was pretty thorough about making sure you were okay.”

“Oh.” Peter's mouth feels dry. The stinging sensation from before moves down to his sinuses. He talks again before it can swallow him whole. “Hey, well, I bet you never thought all your PhDs would be used for this, huh? Makes for an exciting story to tell people later. Be sure you make me look good, all right? Really hype up that bee guy I was fighting. But maybe don't mention the bug repellent part. Or the honey. Actually, maybe just don't mention bee guy at all. Wait, do you think you can tell this story without me in it?”

Bruce's lips turn up, and Peter thinks for the first time since he's got here that the amusement is real.

“You're all right,” Bruce says as he reads over the monitor. He deflates the pressure of the cuff. Peter sags with it.

“Did, um … did Tony call my aunt?”

“I don't think so. Pepper was yelling at him for a while. He probably hasn't gotten to it yet.”

“Could you ask him not to?”

Bruce takes Peter's wrist, feels for his pulse. “Why?”

“It's just … May already worries so much about me doing this Spider-Man thing. I don't wanna give her more reasons, you know? And it's fine now, cause I'm awake. Hooray. All good, right? So … please.”

Bruce sighs. “How about this? I'll have Happy take you home when you're ready. I'll tell Tony not to bother calling your aunt.  _But_ , I want you to tell her yourself. And I'm trusting you will, Peter. The only reason I feel even moderately okay about this is because you're letting me check you out. But I want you to do something else too.”

“What?”

“I want you to try to get some sleep. I don't know what's going on, and it's certainly not my place to pry, but you're not doing yourself any favors by depriving your body of what it needs. If you want help, I'm here. We can figure something out together. But you have to try, okay? At least for me.”

Bile rises in Peter's throat. He silently commands his stomach not to rebel on him now. Not here.

(cause when it comes down to it, the truth is Peter  _has_  been trying. Trying and trying and trying. It's never enough.)

“Okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

\- - -

“The suit should be done tomorrow,” Happy says when they come to a stop in front of Peter's apartment complex. “Do everyone a favor and don't go swinging around in your pajamas. Just hang out till it's fixed.”

Peter nods and undoes his seatbelt. In the time it took to get here, exhaustion has made his limbs heavy, his fingers useless. The way he kicks open the door now and drags himself out of the car, he might as well still be drugged. Sedatives and tranquilizers and opiates. Depress the central nervous system and it helps people sleep. He's not one of them.

“Is your aunt home?”

“Hmm?” Peter meets Happy's gaze through the open window. “Um, yeah. She's making dinner. Some chicken something, I think.”

“I don't need details.”

“Oh.”

“I'll call you when the suit is ready,” says Happy. “Get some rest, kid.”

Peter makes a noncommittal noise and gives him a wave, watches him drive away.

In his pocket is a piece of paper with Bruce's cell phone number on it.

He lugs himself upstairs.

Tony doesn't call.

\- - -

_**guy in the chair:** _

you're on the news again.

you fell?

are you sure your web shooters aren't broken?

 

_**guy in the chair:** _

 are you still with Mr. Stark?

 

_**guy in the chair:** _

 do you think Cap America would come to your bday party if I invited him? is he still mad you stole his shield?

 

  _ **g** **uy in the chair**_ has changed  _ **PeterMan's**_ nickname to  _ **beat up Captain America once**_

\- - -

 

This is insomnia. When you finally do sleep, it feels like a lie. It's a copy of a copy. It's closing your eyes and blinking them open a second later only to find three hours have passed. It's not a sedative. It's not a dream. 

You lie there wondering, are you sleeping? Did you sleep at all? Watch the clock tick by. One minute, two, and then forty minutes pass and you don't know how. You only looked away once.

Nothing works. You're sleeping but you're not sleeping. It's a copy of a copy of another copy. Because you think you haven't slept, your mind thinks so too.  _Rest_ , everyone says.  _Relax_ , they say _._  But it doesn't matter, because in the end, even when you do, it's still a lie.

At six in the morning, Peter sends Bruce a message telling him he'd be interested in getting checked out, hoping it'll hold some answers to his insomnia. At ten, someone knocks on the front door.

“Whoa,” he mutters. “I didn't realize we were that far into our relationship already.”

But when he finally makes it down the hall and to the door, it's not Bruce on the other side.

It's Tony.

Peter doesn't move. It's taken all his energy to drag himself out of bed and the sight of his mentor in the doorway makes him wonder if maybe he  _is_  actually asleep. If Tony is just a dream. A copy of a copy.

There are a few seconds where they both stand there, neither of them moving, and then Tony lifts a paper bag.

“I come bearing gifts,” he says, which completely negates the “what're you doing here?” response Peter is practicing in his mind.

The insomnia distance between them makes Tony appear fuzzy around the edges. Peter doesn't say anything, just steps aside and lets Tony in. He's glad May had to take an early shift at work, because he's not sure how he'd even attempt to explain this to her.

“I owe you an apology,” says Tony as he sets the bag down on the coffee table. Peter stares at it.

“You don't owe me anything,” he says, and he's surprised when his voice comes out quieter than he intends. He has no fight. He's tired and hurt. He can't reach anything. Nothing can reach him.

“I owe you a lot, actually, and that's saying something.” Tony motions toward the couch. “Can we sit down and talk?”

Peter closes the door. His socks slide slowly along the carpet, picking up static and dirt. The legs of his pajama pants are too long.

“So should we do the Tolkien version of this or the Seuss version?” Tony asks.

Peter plops down on the other end of the couch and leans back against the arm of it, drawing his feet onto the cushion. At one point, this is what he wanted. Tony here, in front of him, saying anything at all. He didn't care what. He just wanted  _something_.

Now that he has it, it feels just like blinking and waking up. It feels like a lie.

“All right,” says Tony. “Playing it coy. I get it.” He blows air out of his mouth. “I messed up, kid. I never should have knocked you out like that without your permission. Or, even with your permission, as Pepper has not-so-kindly informed me. I was … well, I was worried about you and I handled it wrong.”

Peter blinks at him. “You were  _worried_  about me?”

Anger is a vague memory, just far enough away Peter can see it but can't touch it. He knows he's mad, that he  _should_  be mad, but there's no point wasting his strength.

(it's useless. Tony is a copy of a copy. An insomniac dream. Blink and he disappears. Open the faceplate and there's nothing inside.)

“Jeez, don't sound  _too_  surprised there,” Tony says. “I actually do have a heart, contrary to popular belief and the occasional hashtag on Youtube.”

“Twitter.”

“What?”

“Hashtags are used on Twitter. Sometimes Instagram.”

“All right, Mr. Millennial. Let's save the social media tutorial for another day, shall we?” Tony flexes his fingers. He looks back at the kitchen, at the door, at the TV. Peter has seen him do this before, an act that creates the illusion of him not having time to be doing whatever he's doing. But Peter knows different. It's not that he's busy. He's uncomfortable.

“I took advantage of you and the situation,” Tony says. “There's no other way to say it, so I won't bother. I was wrong and I'm sorry.”

“Okay.”

Tony's eyes land on him again. He pushes his lips together. “ _Okay_? Listen, I've been with Pepper long enough to know it's never that easy. So what can I do? You want me to write it in the sky? Hold a press conference? Send word to a media outlet?”

Peter exhales slowly, calmly. This is it. This is where he should do it. Tell Tony the truth. Tell  _someone_  the truth. It's overwhelming and raw and right there, right where everyone can see it.

(but why waste energy to find out he's alone? Empty suits. Copies of copies. He's trying and trying and trying and it doesn't matter in the end.)

He counts the seconds in his head. “Mr. Stark,” he says. “I don't need anything from you.”

It's not what he means. It  _is_  what he means, but it's not what he really wants to say.

It's just better.

(and when it comes down to it, it doesn't matter in the end. It never does.)

\- - -

“May, can I talk to you about something?”

May looks up from the pile of meat she's currently pounding into oblivion in the kitchen. She pushes a loose strand of hair away from her face. A streak of white powder follows.

“Yes,” she says. “Always. Is it a girl thing? I know it must be confusing right now, with the way your body is changing. Do we need to have  _the talk_? Should I get the book?” 

“What? Ew. No.” Peter pushes his back against the counter and crosses his arms over his chest. “It's about my birthday.”

“Oh, even better.” May slams her mallet into the mound again. “Ned has moved on from the zoo idea. He now wants a luau.”

“Where would we even  _have_  a luau?”

“He wants to rent out the Aurora Gallery and decorate it. Don't know where he thinks he's getting all the money to do this from.”

“Yeah, well, he has an active imagination.”

“I won't argue with that.”

Peter smirks. He watches May trade her mallet for a rolling pin. He plans his words carefully. “I was thinking … maybe could we do something low-key?”

“What, Hawaii is not chill enough for you?” May asks with a wink. Peter smiles.

“Don't get me wrong, Hawaii is definitely relaxing, but I was thinking … I don't know, maybe not having a party? Just you and me hanging out. We could get Thai and watch Star Wars?”

May looks over at him, her face contorting into suspicion. “We do that every week. What's wrong? Is Ned taking too much control? I can talk to him.”

“No, it's not – he's not –” Peter pinches the bridge of his nose. Ned asked him if he could help plan the party. Peter said yes. He must have said yes. Still, he can't remember when, and he can't remember sleeping last night, and he can't remember ever wanting something less than he wants this now.

He says, “I just don't want to make a big deal of it.”

“It's your sixteenth birthday. The big one-six. You can get your license. You can join a trade union. You can be tried as an adult for murder. All the fun things. Why don't you want to make it a big deal?”

“I just  _don't_ , okay?” Peter snaps. He shuts his mouth quickly, closes his eyes against the sudden onset of tears. He hears May set down the rolling pin. Her warm palms touch his cheeks.

“All right, this is not okay,” she says. “I know you haven't been sleeping, and with the falling too, and now this, something's going on. You gotta tell me what's wrong, Peter.”

Peter shakes his head, breaking from her grip. He moves to the table and sinks down on the bench. “I'm sorry,” he whispers. The ground blurs beneath him. “I'm … I'm just really tired.”

“I know you are,” May says. She sets a hand on top his head. She waits for him to go on.

Peter does. “I don't want a big party, you know? Sixteen is great and all, but I'd rather just spend it with you. And we could invite Ned too. Remember when I was little and we'd make a bunch of food and spread it across the coffee table like it was a buffet? And we'd watch movies and just eat and hang out. Can we do that again? I miss that.”

“I miss that too.” May leans down and places a kiss near his hairline. “We can do whatever makes you happy, hun. It's your birthday. You want coffee table food? We'll do it. You're gonna have to break the news to Ned, though. I don't want to be the one to crush his dreams.”

He should tell her. He didn't tell Tony. He didn't tell Bruce. He hasn't told anyone how bad it's been. Sleeping but not sleeping. No dreams. No rest. He's trying. He's wondering, is he asleep? Has he ever been asleep?

(try and try and try and it isn't enough. It never is.)

“Go lay down until dinner,” May says. “Then take a shower. The hot water will do you good. Do you wanna stay home tomorrow?”

“Is that a free offer?”

“No strings attached. One time guarantee as long as you promise to take it easy and try to get some sleep.”

“That's an attached string.”

“Make compromises where you can,” says May. “You taking the offer or not?”

And Peter isn't sure if he's awake, can't remember sleeping since weeks ago, but he nods anyway and leans into May's embrace. Her touch is the most real thing he's felt in a long time. He tries to stay here as long as he can.

\- - -

He wakes up.

This is how it starts. How it ends. He closes his eyes and he wakes up and that's all there is to it. Four hours. Better than three, better than none, but not  _better_. Just a copy scanned and printed too many times. Double something enough and it loses its quality. He's deteriorating with every second.

He spends the day thinking about how he's not asleep. He's awake shortly after May leaves for work and then he's roaming around the apartment, drinking warm milk, researching foods that help stimulate serotonin. He watches TV shows. The characters sleep. He doesn't.

Tony leaves him a voicemail he ignores.

Bruce asks him when he wants to come by to run tests.

Peter blinks and another two hours go by. He wakes up and Ned is at the door, holding a stack of papers and balancing books in his arms.

“You hung out with  _Bruce Banner_?” Ned asks as they sprawl out on the couch, snacking on chips and pretzels. “Did he turn into the Hulk? Is it true he's always angry?”

Peter tosses crumbs at him. “I don't think he's  _always_  angry.”

“So, like, maybe just ninety percent of the time?”

“Maybe fifty fifty.”

“Sixty forty?”

“He didn't turn into the Hulk, Ned.”

“But what are the chances he could have?”

“Um, one hundred percent?”

“Exactly!” Ned gulps down half his Coke and chokes, flopping his hand around with misplaced excitement. “Wait, wait, okay. If Hulk lifted Thor, and then  _I_  lifted Hulk, am I still lifting the hammer? Are both me and Hulk worthy?”

It's nice, sitting here and laughing together, but it's bittersweet. It always is. As soon as Peter finds himself relaxing, a news alert flashes across the TV, horns blowing to announce the alarm.

 _ **ATTENTION**_ , it reads,  ** _ALL CITIZENS ARE ADVISED TO TAKE SHELTER INDOORS. PLEASE REMAIN INSIDE UNTIL AUTHORITIES MAKE AN ANNOUNCEMENT. LAW ENFORCEMENT AND AVENGERS ON SCENE OF SUSPICIOUS AND THREATENING BEHAVIOR. DO NOT ENGAGE. DO NOT ATTEMPT TO AID. ATTENTION …_**

Ned whips his head to look at Peter. “Are you gonna –”

Peter is already running for his suit.

\- - -

“Good afternoon, Peter. How was your aunt's chicken?”

“Hey, Karen,” Peter says as he swings across 30th avenue. “Burnt, as always. Look, we've got a situation going on here. How's the new do?”

“Everything appears to be working properly. Mr. Stark installed a few new features. Would you like to test them out?”

“Maybe later when we're all cool and not being attacked by mysterious forces. Do you know what's going on?”

“According to reports, a rift has opened up above the city.”

“A  _rift_?” Peter flies past a group of people running in the opposite direction. He's close now. He can hear the sirens, can see debris and rubble flying through the air. “Like, a rift in time and space?”

“Yes,” says Karen. “A doorway. It has let through a series of alien creatures.”

“Holy shit, that's incredible. Uh, I mean … you know what I mean.”

“Mr. Stark and company are on scene. Would you like me to patch you through to the channel they are communicating on?”

“Um.”

Peter doesn't get a chance to consider this. He can already see Tony, can see another figure twirling orange circles around his hands. Doctor Strange? It must be. Peter has only heard of him in passing but he's pretty sure they are one and the same. He sees Bruce, just Bruce, in the window of a small jet above.

And then he hears the ringing. It's louder than before, pulsing and throbbing, his ears aching with the sound. He tries to cover his head to block some of the noise and forgets he's using his arms to oscillate between buildings. The pain of his skull vibrating distracts him from the pain of slamming face-first into the side of a BMW.

“Karen,” he gasps. “Noise cancellation. Noise cancellation.”

It doesn't change. The noise grows and swells and forces its way into every part of Peter's being. His jaw locks. Muscles in his face spasm. He breaks a piece of curb loose when his grip finds the edge of it and locks on.

And then it's over and he's nearly collapsing with relief.

“Shit. Jesus – mother fuc – Karen, what the hell was that?”

Karen is quiet while she searches for answers. “I'm not sure, Peter. I detected no outside stimulation.”

“You didn't hear that insanely loud ringing? You know, the one making my brain melt out of my ears?”

“Kid?” Tony's voice floods through the inside of his mask. “You taking a nap down there? You wanna consider joining the party? We could use some entertainment right about now.”

Peter inches his way back to his feet, slowly pushing each limb until he's sure he can handle his own weight. He smells copper. He tastes something bitter on his tongue.

Rhodey's voice comes through next. “Kid, can you help evac? We've got civilians out here.”

“On it.” Peter collects himself as best he can and swings his way over to the police officers on the street. Above him, a loud explosion sends trembles through the ground and showers down a fountain of purple sparks.

“What are those things?” he asks.

“Intergalactic beings,” a new voice says, and Peter nearly jumps out of his skin when an orange-rimmed circle appears in front of him and peels open to reveal stars. “On your left.”

He swivels quickly. A creature that looks like it walked right out of a Spielberg film lunges toward him. Peter ducks, narrowly missing it, and kicks it into the portal, which swallows itself up after the being is through.

“Oh my god. Did anyone see how amazing that was? No? Just me? All right.” Peter starts toward the civilians again. Under the terrified screams they are letting out whenever something erupts, he hears Rhodey mutter, “Jesus, Tony. Last name Christ.”

“Get a new line, Rhodes. You're boring me.”

Peter ignores them for the time being. He ushers stragglers into shops and restaurants, webs a child out of the way of a piece of falling concrete and returns her to her mother, who spews out a litany of praises. Doctor Strange opens another portal and has Peter lead an alien toward it and then dive the opposite direction while he pulls the entire circle forward to consume it.

It is, arguably, the  _coolest_  thing Peter has ever done in his entire life.

He's enjoying it a little too much. He must be, because he's not sure how else he misses the next attack. The last creature extending claws out of its fingers, sharp and long like swords. It detaches one of them and throws it hard enough it splits the air open with a crack.

Peter hears mechanical whirling. He feels a blast of wind. Then two hands are grabbing him under the arms and yanking him up and out of the way. A portal opens and closes. Peter is flying, soaring, disoriented. His feet touch ground.

It's Tony. Tony who has come to save him. Tony who is never there, not when it matters, not even when it doesn't. The other side of a phone. A screen somewhere far away. An empty suit and empty hope and empty promises.

Peter yanks away from him and stumbles back.

“Whoa,” Tony says. He lifts his hands in surrender. “Take it easy. No need to go full Doomsday on me. Just trying to help.”

“I don't need your help,” Peter says, and this time he's  _actually_  yelling, every ounce of adrenaline pushing his emotions to the surface and making sure they're seen. He's tired. He's tired and he's hurt and he can hear that stupid ringing again, lower now, but persistent, annoying, making his head ache.

“I don't need your help," he says again. "I don't need your apologies and I don't need your sedatives, so just back off, okay?”

There is a moment where nothing happens. A moment where they both stand there, Peter panting, Tony motionless and quiet, and a world of possibilities floating between them. An open portal, an endless amount of space. And then Rhodey comes over the comm, his voice soft and unsure.

“Uh, hate to interrupt,” he says, “But we've got some people in some uniforms who need assistance dealing with this aftermath and they're all looking at you, Tony.”

Tony stares at Peter a little longer, his expression hidden behind welded metal and paint. He clears his throat. “Right. Right. Be right there. Kid, I ... ”

“Thanks for the rescue, Mr. Stark. Hope you're somewhere nice. I'll see you around.”

“Peter, wait –”

(Make the calls and disappear. Save the world and disappear. A copy of a copy of a copy.)

Peter doesn't stick around to see if Tony is really there this time.

He swings and swings until he's far enough away they can't reach him. Nothing can reach him.

Underneath his mask, blood oozes and drips from his ears.

He doesn't stay to see what's under the faceplate.

He doesn't care.

(because in the end, it doesn't matter. It's all just a lie.)

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The "copy of a copy" bit is inspired by Fight Club, because I loved it so much when I read it and wanted to incorporate something like it into this story.
> 
> Thank you guys for the support <3


	3. Chapter 3

“Dude, you were like, over here, alien dudes, and then Mr. Strange was like,  _whoosh,_ magic portal! And then –” 

Peter closes his eyes and leans his forehead against his locker door. “It's Doctor.”

“What?”

“You said Mister.”

“Okay,  _Doc-tor_ Strange was like, have some magic, here's some more magic, and you were all, karate kick, dive,  _bam!_  Welcome to my magic portal, have some – hey, are you okay?”

“I'm fine, Ned. Keep it down.” Peter straightens up. He spins the dial on his locker, spins it again when it doesn't work. Ned watches him anxiously, his excitement fading. There are still bruises on Peter's face and arms where he collided with the car. The attack is all over the news. Peter hasn't talked to Tony or Bruce in two days.

“Do you think he does parties?” Ned asks.

“Who?”

“Mr. Doctor Strange.”

“He's not a magician,” Peter says. “He's a wizard.”

“That is the coolest sentence in the history of sentences.” Ned nudges him aside and takes over the lock, opening it with three solid turns. “And you've said some amazing sentences. Remember when you were fighting with Iron Man?”

“Ned,” Peter hisses, scanning the hallway, his gaze landing on the spot where Michelle is propped against the wall and reading some historical novel. She meets his look and mouths the word “moron” before returning her attention to her book.

“You gotta keep it down, man,” says Peter. “And thanks.”

Ned flops his hands around. “Sorry, sorry. It's just so hard when your life is so cool.”

Something in Peter's stomach flips. As of late, his life seems anything but cool. Just arguments and sedatives and empty suits and empty faceplates. It's all a lie. A disguise. One mistake after another.

“Yeah, well, let's maybe not let the entire school know about that.”

“Are you guys, like, all best friends now? Like an Avengers best friend group? Taking on the world and hanging out during your downtime? Do you guys just chill after missions and order pizza and stuff?”

“No,” Peter says, rubbing his temples. His ears are ringing, the high pitched noise settling low and painfully inside his skull. “Can you quit it with all the questions? I've got a headache.”

“Okay, but I just gotta know, are they gonna come to your party? Cause I already figured Iron Man would, but if Mr. Doctor Strange comes too –  _and_  Bruce Banner, holy shit, it would be the most amazing party ever. We could finally get Flash to shut up about the internship and –”

The ringing hitches up a notch. Peter slams his locker closed. “Ned!” he says. “We're not inviting them to anything because there's not gonna be a party, so stop asking, all right?”

Ned's entire face falls. His eyes are wide, his expression wounded, but Peter doesn't take care. His blood is boiling. He's mad at Tony and he's mad at himself and he's too far away, so far away the words escaping his mouth don't connect with anything.

“Jesus, can everyone just leave me alone?” he says. “I didn't even want to celebrate my stupid birthday in the first place and now everyone is all in my business like suddenly my life is their concern.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Ned steps closer. “Dude, I'm sorry if I … I didn't mean to upset you. You're my best friend. I never meant –”

Peter's insides twist with regret, nausea striking hard. He staggers back against the lockers and uses all his strength not to slide down to the floor. “I'm sorry.”

There's tension in Ned's body, strong enough Peter can feel it between them, and it makes the ringing grow louder.

Ned says, “You didn't sleep again, did you?”

Peter shakes his head.

“Have you told Mr. Stark?”

“Mr. Stark has nothing to do with anything,” says Peter. “It's not his job to look after me. He's not my dad."

“Well, no, but ...” Ned pulls his lips between his teeth, hesitating.

“But what?”

“He's kind of your next best thing.”

Empty suits and empty faceplates. Tony is never there. Not when it matters, not even when it doesn't.

(but why should Peter care? He doesn't care.  _Tony_  doesn't care. Make the calls and disappear. Disappear, disappear, disappear. He never stays.)

“No, he's not,” Peter says, sharper than he means to. He slips his arm through his backpack strap and starts walking the opposite direction. “And I don't want him to be.”

“Where are you going?”

“Home.”

Ned hurries to catch up. “Peter, come on, don't leave. I didn't mean it like that. I –”

“I know. I'll talk to you later, Ned.”

Outside, classmates bound up the stairs on either side of Peter. Somewhere close by, Flash yells, “Penis Parker!” and a car engine revs. Everything is loud. Too loud, too much. People laugh. Voices swell. Someone's alarm screeches in the parking lot.

Too loud, too much.

Peter throws up in the bushes.

\- - -

“Good afternoon, Peter. How was your math quiz?”

“The best,” Peter says. “Got anything good today, Karen?”

“The man you have asked me not to refer to as a bee has just robbed another jewelry store.”

“Fantastic. Waiting until I'm in class so he doesn't get caught. Well, joke's on him.”

“You also have a message from Mr. Stark,” Karen says.

“I'm sure I do. Ignore it.”

“He has asked me to patch it through.”

“I don't care.” Peter jumps from the ledge he's standing on and shoots a web at the building next door. “I'll listen to it later.”

“You have a message from Dr. Banner as well.”

“Karen, just, ignore all the messages for right now, okay? I'm trying to sulk and you're not helping.”

“I apologize. I will let you sulk.”

The swooshing sensation as he swings down toward the street has his stomach threatening to rebel on him again. He coughs against the burning feeling in his throat. He should be home. In a perfect world, he should be sleeping. It's the only thing he wants to do. It's the only thing he can't.

His eyes sting.

“The man who is not a bee is two blocks north,” says Karen.

Peter composes himself. “We're gonna have to figure out a good name.”

“I suggest The Buzzer.”

“Okay, looks like I'm on my own for the name thing.”

Up ahead, the familiar glint of wings catches Peter's attention. He changes course, hoping to catch the guy off guard. It's not hard. Peter is quieter, faster, can gain more altitude. He comes in high from a side alley and swings across the street.

He doesn't see the truck.

He doesn't  _sense_  it either.

“Peter, oncoming vehicle,” Karen says urgently.

Peter's brain turns to mush. The trunk lays on its horn and he braces himself for impact. There's no time. He can't think. Can't process. Can't get out of the way quick enough. Can't –

Something slams into his side. The web breaks and he plunges down on the sidewalk, rolling into the grass. For a brief moment, he expects it to be Tony. Tony coming to save him again like he can't handle his own. But when he looks up, he doesn't see Iron Man. He sees the very guy he was running after.

“Whoa,” he says. “Hey, thanks, Bee dude.”

The guy waves as he flies by, and then, before Peter can decide if he wants to chase down the man who just saved his life, an orange ring appears in the sky and engulfs him whole. It happens so fast Peter isn't sure it happened at all. There one second, gone the next. A small business card floats to the ground in its place.

Peter crawls to where it lands and reads the only line on it.

 **177A Bleecker Street**.

“Karen?” he asks. “Did I just hallucinate a portal wiping out our favorite bee cosplayer?”

“You did not,” Karen says.

“Do you know what this address is?”

“It is the residence of Stephen Strange.”

“Yeah, that makes sense.” Peter gets to his feet. The truck is gone, but people are staring, whispering to one another. “Uh, I guess I should go there? Can you get me out of here?”

“Mapping route now.”

“Oh god.” Peter groans and changes out his web cartridges. He flexes his fingers. “If May finds out about this, she's gonna kill me.”

“I'm afraid I'm detecting quite a few people with camera phones. This will probably be on the internet in a couple minutes.”

“Not helpful, Karen.”

“Sorry, Peter.”

“Jeez. We gotta talk about learning to be more sympathetic.”

“I will add that to my list.”

“Great. Let's go.”

\- - -

This is why he is sure he's losing his mind. After trying to lay low so he doesn't garner more unwanted attention, he arrives at Bleecker Street, cautious and a little concerned, and lifts his fist to knock only to discover that right as he does, he's no longer outside the building.

He might be tired, but he’s almost sure that’s not the way doors work.

“What the hell?” The force of his arm no longer having something to collide against makes him stumble forward. Then he stumbles back, his ears vibrating with a low ringing noise.

“Karen?” he whispers, tracking the foyer around him.

“No need to worry, Mr. Parker,” comes a low voice. Peter turns toward the giant set of stairs in the middle of the room and watches Strange glide down them, dressed in a sweater and jeans, so casual and not at all like the last time they were together that Peter feels horribly out of place.

“Oh.” Peter pinches the top of his mask and pulls it off. “You know who I am?”

“I am a Sorcerer Supreme, Spider-Man. I know lots of things. Please, follow me.”

Peter folds his hand over the warm material and trails along behind Strange, his eyes darting everywhere quickly to take it all in. Ceilings stretch toward the sky. Wooden walls and bookshelves and cauldrons and vases, each one out of place and somehow the most in place anything has ever been.  It feels like a museum, like it’s just far away enough to not be real, a life distanced from him by time.

How long has it been since he's slept? Days? He doesn't know anymore. This long without proper sleep and everything becomes an out-of-body experience. Everything is too far away to reach.

“Take a seat, Mr. Parker,” Strange says, motioning him over to a large armchair. Peter doesn't need to be told twice. He sinks down onto it. Strange sits across from him.

“Um, you can call me Peter,” Peter says. “I mean, if you want to. It's just … it's what everyone else calls me. That's – well, that's because it's my name, but you get the point.”

“I do,” Strange says. “Would you like something to drink?”

“Huh? Oh, uh, no. No, thanks. I'm okay. I'm good.”

“Let me know if you change your mind.”

Peter nods. His leg bounces beneath him. The suit feels sticky and too hot. “So,” he says.

“So?”

“You … um, you sent for me? Kind of?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Is there something I can help with? Cause you're, uh, you're just kind of not saying anything and I'm not really sure if you actually meant to give me your card or not, so –”

Strange stands swiftly, making Peter jolt in surprise. He lifts a palm, as if to calm him, to make him stay where he is, and then starts looking around like he's lost something. “Has anyone ever told you that you talk a lot?”

“I've heard rumors.”

“Nervous habit?” Strange asks, peering underneath a book before setting it back down. “Or personality trait?”

“A little of both, I guess. Uh ... sorry.”

“A word of advice, Peter: learn to apologize less.”

The still-constant ringing in Peter's ears whirls up a level. There's a swooshing sound like cloth flying through the air and a red cloak appears beside Strange, hovering like it has a mind of its own, a corner reaching out to tap the man's shoulder.

Peter's mouth falls open. Strange doesn't notice. He turns toward the cloak and it grabs something, full on  _grabs_  it as if it has arms, and hands it to Strange.

“There it is,” Strange says. “Did you have this the whole time?”

The cloak makes a shrugging motion. Strange waves it away.

“We'll talk about this later.” He returns to his seat and leans forward this time, taking in Peter's expression.

“Don't mind that,” he says. “We have a complicated relationship.”

Peter's laugh comes out choked. “Right. Yeah. Cloaks. What can you do?”

“Indeed.”

The ringing flares once, enough to make Peter wince, and dies down again, settling into its annoying hum. Strange purses his lips but doesn't make a comment.

“Your birthday is coming soon,” he says.

Peter blinks. “What?”

“Sixteen, I believe. A right of passage in the driving world.”

“How did – what?”

“Sorcerer Supreme, Peter. I know things. For example, I know you should be in school right now, but that is neither here nor there. This is for you.”

The same insomnia distance that made Tony appear fuzzy around the edges now makes Strange's motions too slow. He must have this object extended out for a good thirty seconds before Peter comprehends it and grabs hold.

“Wow. This is –”

Peter doesn't quite know what it is. A small, golden box that seems to glow in his hands. He can feel magic pulsing through it, can feel a low tingle in the places it touches his fingers through the suit.

“It's a gift,” Strange says. “For you. A special gift for what I believe will be a special day. As well as a thank you for all your help.”

“With the aliens? Cause I didn't really do much.”

“Don't underestimate yourself. You did a lot. Consider this a thank you for the hard work you do around the city. Wong and I notice and we appreciate it.”

“Wong?”

“A greeting for another time,” says Strange, rising slower to his feet. “I’m afraid I have an appointment to attend, so our meeting ends now.”

Peter stands with him and follows him back through the maze of a place, letting it all pass before him, the box warm and sturdy in his grip.

Strange stops him near the door. “And Peter, one more thing before you go.”

“Yeah?”

“That gift,” he says, nodding toward it. “You can only open it once. Use it wisely.”

“Okay.” Peter shoves his mask over his head, clutches the gift closer to his chest to make sure he won't drop it on the way out. “Thanks, Dr. Strange. See you – oh, wait,” he says. “That guy – the one dressed like a bee? What did you do with him?”

“I sent him to a police station. I believe they can handle it from here. Good day, Spider-Man.”

With a wave of Strange's hands, Peter is outside again, his stomach in knots, his head spinning.

“Uh,” he says to no one. “Yeah, okay. That … happened.”

He's almost sure he's lost his mind.

\---

“You're grounded,” May says. “You're beyond grounded. Future generations are gonna hear the story of your grounding and say, 'Wow, glad I'm not that guy.' 

From his spot on the couch, Peter wrings his hands together. He watches May pace back and forth. Her continuous movements are making him uneasy, making him sick.

“I'm sorry,” he says for the hundredth time.

“I don't wanna hear it. You're grounded for eternity.”

Peter bites the inside of his cheek and nods. “Okay.”

“Go take a shower and go to bed.”

It could be worse. Considering the way he ditched school and then almost got smashed by a truck, he's lucky May isn't screaming herself hoarse right now. A grounding he can handle. A grounding he deserves.

“Peter?” May says, grabbing his arm before he can leave. He looks up at her and finds his eyes burning in response.

She pulls him close. “You know I love you, right?”

He's too far away. A copy of a copy. Blink and you wake up and it's all a lie.

“I know,” he says.

(try and try again. Empty suits and empty faceplates. In the end, it doesn't matter.)

“I know.”

\- - -

Halfway through Peter's shower, the water turns pink. Not a full river or even a stream, but enough Peter notices and brings his hand to the side of his neck.

“Shit,” he says when his fingers come back stained. He turns off the water and steps out. “Shit, shit, shit.”

Legs weak and wobbly, he wraps a towel around his waist and sits on the closed toilet seat, pushes his palms over his eyes. Years and years ago, he sat in this same bathroom, right before his seventh birthday, tears and snot running down his face. May kneeled in front of him then, shushed him while she dabbed at the wound on the inside of his hand.

She smiled up at him and said, “It's okay, sweetie. It's not that bad. See?”

It was never that bad. Band-aids and ointment and kisses. May could fix anything.

Peter grabs a wad of toilet paper and dabs up the blood. That day, he'd snatched a knife off the counter in the kitchen right by its blade. Surprised, he'd squeezed it before he could think about it, then dropped it – right on May's foot. A secret ER trip and six stitches. May had cleaned his cut and put him to bed and didn't tell him about her own injury or how bad it was.

She laughs about it now. Peter likes that she laughs. It makes him think she doesn't blame him, she doesn't hate him, she's not mad he could have hurt her way worse than he did. She laughs and she tells him it's not that bad, that nothing is ever that bad.

_“You know I love you, right?”_

This is not a cut. This is not something that can be slathered in cream and bandaged and forgotten. Not something that should be hidden until later when he's older and the worst has passed. If this cut gets any deeper, it won't be just a mistake. Won't be just an accident.

May has a scar on the top of her foot.

May still laughs about it.

Peter wants to make sure she never stops, so he decides, right here and now, that he won’t tell her about the bleeding from his ears. Decides he won’t tell her about the ringing or the falling or the not-sleeping or the fight with Tony or the copies of copies of copies. Empty suits and empty faceplates.

May already has enough scars from him. He's not going to cause another.

He can't.

He sneaks down the hall, closes his bedroom door, and snatches his phone off his desk.

“Guess we're going big today,” he mutters. The screen flashes. He searches through his contacts and hits the call button.

It rings once before a concerned voice answers. “Peter?”

“Um ... hey, Dr. Banner.”

Bruce lets out a relieved breath. “Glad to hear from you again.”

“Yeah. Yay. I'm alive. Uh, listen, all Peter-throwing-a-tantrum aside, I … well, you said if I needed help, you'd be there.” Peter looks at the bloody tissues crumpled in his hand. He healed without a scar. May didn't. He can't do it again.

“I think I might need to take you up on that offer.”

\- - -

Peter doesn't go to school, but Happy still picks him up after it gets out.

He tells May part of the truth. That Bruce wants to run tests to figure out the bug repellent thing. That Bruce is going to help him deal with his insomnia. It's the latter part that convinces May to let him go.

“You're still grounded,” she reminds him. “Forever. Forever and ever.”

“I know.”

All the way from his apartment to the compound, he and Happy don't talk. Rain plasters itself against the windshield. Thunder roars. Happy glances at him in the rear-view mirror but doesn't say anything. It's awkward, tense, and it's not until they're pulling up to the building that Peter clears his throat and asks, “Is, uh … is Mr. Stark here?”

“He's somewhere,” Happy says. “But Banner made sure he won't come bother you.”

“Oh, great,” Peter grumbles. “We sound like middle schoolers having a fight.”

“Aren't you?”

There are far more people here today than the last time Peter visited. He weaves through them with tired miscalculations, bumping into shoulders, tripping over heels. Happy deposits him downstairs in the same lab Tony knocked him out in with a fleeting warning not to touch anything.

“Dr. Banner will be here in a sec.”

“Dr. Banner is here now,” Bruce says, entering the room with his usual quiet aura. And there's that admiration, that swooping feeling of exhausted excitement. Peter wonders if that will ever go away. If he'll ever see an Avenger and not think it's the coolest thing in the world.

“Hello, Peter.”

“H-hey, Dr. Banner.”

The admiration turns to nerves in a second. A hundred butterflies fill his stomach, make him worried he might hurl all over the floor in front of one of his idols. He yelled at Tony. He disappeared for two days. And then he just called Bruce up like it was nothing, asked him for help.

Maybe he's as bad as Tony.

“How are you doing?” Bruce asks as he slips on a pair of gloves. “How are the ears?”

“They're okay,” Peter says, shrinking a little. “I'm okay.”

“If you were okay, you wouldn't be here.”

“That's … not inaccurate.”

Bruce smiles. “All right, I'm gonna do a quick check over and take some blood. I'll run samples on it and see if I can figure out what compound was causing the reaction from your bee friend. As for the bleeding and the ringing, I've called one of the medical researchers to take a look. This is a little out of my jurisdiction, what with me 'not being a real doctor' and all.”

“Oh, um, okay. And Mr. Stark –?”

“He knows you're here, if that's what you're asking.” Bruce gestures for him to sit on one of the stools. He opens a cupboard and brings down supplies. “But he's off doing something else.”

Peter slides onto the stool. “Does everyone know?" he asks. "About me throwing the world's biggest hissy fit?”

Bruce regards him with sympathy. “Sorry, Pete. You were patched through on the comm. We all got the live feed.”

“So everyone knows then.”

“Not everyone. Just me and Rhodes. And Happy.”

“That's … that's kind of everyone.”

“If it counts, I don't think you were acting like a kid. I think you were very justified in your response.”

Bruce may be bullshitting Peter, but Peter still feels a strange flurry of warmth in his stomach knowing someone's on his side. There's no way he  _didn't_  sound exactly like the teenager he's trying to convince everyone he's not. He's been listening to his own words echoing back in his head ever since he said them.

(but it doesn't matter. He doesn't care. Copies and copies and copies. Nothing is real anymore. Nothing ever was.)

The cupboard closes. Bruce hooks the bottom of another stool with his foot and drags it closer to Peter, a green tourniquet in his hand. With his motions, something sizzles in the air, hot and sharp like electricity. Peter's heart picks up.

Bruce stops in his tracks. “Do you have an aversion to needles?”

“No, I –” And for how often Peter's body seems to go against him lately, this time it does what it's supposed to. It sends the hairs on his arms standing straight, sends tingles along his spine. This he remembers. This he knows. “Dr. Banner, something is wrong.”

“Are you all right? What is it?”

“Not me.” Peter shakes his head. “Something –”

Peter doesn't finish. In one fluid movement, he has Bruce by the arm, yanking him back behind one of the tables so they are blocked by the piece of furniture when a loud explosion shatters the windows at the front of the room and sends trembles through the floor. Bruce curls in on himself and groans. 

"No," he growls.

Frantic, Peter scans over his folded form and sees green lines crawling up his neck. Terror fills his bones.

“Dr. Banner?” he whispers. In the hallway, people scream. Sirens wail. Peter reaches a shaking hand out. “Dr. Banner, are you okay?”

Bruce makes a straining noise, his muscles contracting with the effort of keeping control. Peter freezes in place. If the Hulk comes out, he doesn't know what to do. He's not wearing his suit. He doesn't have his web shooters. He is completely and utterly vulnerable, unbalanced, fatigued. He'd lose in a second flat. Hulk would rip him to pieces before he could let Tony know the green guy was even there.

But then Bruce moans, his shoulders sagging, and meets Peter's frightened gaze

“Peter?" he asks. "How did you know that was gonna happen?”

“I – I–” Peter's mouth feels tacky. “I have a sense. When – when danger is coming. Um, usually. Hasn't … hasn't been working lately. Are you okay? Like,  _okay_  okay?”

“He's not coming out to play, don't worry,” says Bruce as he helps Peter to his feet. “You're stuck with me. FRIDAY, what's happening?”

“There has been an explosion in the south elevator,” FRIDAY says.

“What kind of explosion?”

“It appears to be a bomb. Boss believes we might be under attack. He has advised you both to stay here.”

Bruce is already picking his way through the broken shards of glass and heading for the door. “I'm gonna take a look,” he says to Peter. “You stay here.”

“Wait, shouldn't I –”

“Please, Peter. Just stay here until I find out what's going on.”

It's a horrible idea. Of all the people out there in the midst of whatever chaos is going on, Bruce should be the one playing it safe, keeping the other half of him from exploring the danger. An entire building full of people under attack from one source. And now another threat?

More scars, more accidents. Peter can prevent them this time. 

“Um, FRIDAY?” he says. “How many people are trying to kill us right now?”

“From what I can tell, one.”

“Huh. Okay, one isn't too bad. And where would this one guy happen to be?”

“Mr. Parker, you are recommended to stay put.”

“Uh huh. And I will take the fall for that later, but right now we've got a lot of innocent people in here who could get hurt, especially if Dr. Banner's friend decides to make an unplanned visit. Help me help them.”

He's met with silence. He eyes the ceiling, waits a little longer for a response, and hears more yells as the basement inhabits run past the lab.

“All right,” he says. “Guess I'll find out myself.”

“Mr. Parker,” FRIDAY says again. She takes another moment to follow through and then, “Top floor.”

“On it!”

Adrenaline pumping and providing him a sluggish vigor, Peter dashes through the corridor, barrels his way up the stairs. He's knocked back by men and women coming from each direction as they attempt to flee to safety. Smoke makes his lungs ache.

“Oh my god,” he pants, pausing on the first-floor landing. “I gotta get in shape.”

There's another explosion, smaller this time, more contained. Peter's nerves set on edge. He reaches the top floor and charges into the hallway, halting in place when he sees the open elevator door, smells the fire coming from somewhere in the shaft. He inches closer and squints into the darkness. He thinks of D.C. Of Liz and Ned and his decathlon team plummeting down the Washington Monument. Catching Liz by a single hand. A single thread.

“Yeah, this is not something I need to relive just yet,” he says, backing away and looking around. It's mostly empty everywhere he can see, a few stragglers armed with guns and other Stark tech. One of them yells, “Get out of here!” to Peter and stands as if he's going to personally escort Peter back to the stairs.

Then Peter feels it again. He goes cold, goosebumps dance along his skin. He dives for the person closest to him and knocks them out of the way of a beam of light that sizzles a hole into the plaster in the exact spot they had been only a second earlier.

The man who told Peter to leave ogles at him. “Maybe you should stay.”

Despite the situation, Peter laughs. “How many people are up here?” he asks.

“We're not sure. No way to know. Right now, we need – kid, look out!”

And Peter should have known better. Really, he should have. Shouldn't have believed he could trust his instincts now when they've failed him so many times these last couple weeks. He doesn't sense the danger. He doesn't have time. Right as he turns, something collides into his stomach, and he's pushed back with a force strong enough to send him soaring across the open space behind him into the open elevator pit.

He falls.

His body screams danger,  _danger danger danger._

Peter fumbles with terror and feels for the cartridges that should be there but aren't. Right. He doesn't have his web shooters on. He doesn't have his suit. He doesn't have anything. He's a copy of himself. Doubled too many times. No sleep and no answers and no apologies.

But this is insomnia. Falling with nothing to catch you. Wondering, are you alive? Have you ever been alive? Count the dots on the ceiling. Watch the clock. You can't reach anything, nothing can reach you.

 _Danger danger danger_.

And then something  _does_  reach him, latches onto his wrist and takes hold. It's smooth, cold, sleek. He barely gets a chance to look at it before more surrounds him, swallows up his arms and legs and torso, his vision darkening when it covers his head too.

There's the sound of thrusters, undeniably similar to Tony's, and then the metal contraption around him is yanking him up. Peter's stomach drops from the sudden change in acceleration. He's flying, soaring, he's – he's –

He's  _inside_  the Iron Man suit.

“Holy shit!”

He doesn't get a second to process the full extent of how absolutely amazing it is. Almost as soon as it has caught him, it's back at the top of the elevator, dropping him on the floor, each piece breaking apart. When the last little bit zooms past him, he sinks to his knees and steadies his hands on the ground.

“Oh my god," he says. "Okay, greatest moment of my life? Check.”

A pair of red colored legs touch down in front of him. Peter trails his gaze up. Tony must have sent an extra suit to catch him because this one is already put together, standing stiff, the whirl of his blasters charging loud enough to make Peter's ears buzz.

Tony says, “You okay?” and Peter nods and pushes himself to his feet, a weary sense of dread making him feel heavy.

“Mr. Stark, I –”

“Are you trying to get yourself killed, kid? I told you to stay put.”

“I had a plan.”

“There's no way you had a plan.”

“It was a great plan, okay? It was like, the best plan ever. Kind of like in that one –”

“If you reference some movie right now, I swear I will spontaneously combust. Literally. Flames and everything.”

“I don't think –”

“ _Literally_.”

Peter sighs and rubs at his arm. “I was just trying to help.”

“You were –?” Tony breaks off, and, in a fashion so unlike himself, takes a step back from Peter. “Jesus Christ, Pete.”

Peter's anger flashes. It's easier, here, talking to a suit. Talking to nothing.

“What?” he demands. “You think I'm so incapable of helping? You think I'm so inexperienced that you need to put a tracker in my suit and have Karen record everything I see so you can make sure I'm not getting into something I shouldn't? I'm not a child.”

“Then stop acting like one,” Tony says. He pauses, turns his head toward something Peter can't hear, and straightens up.

“All right, you wanna be treated like an adult?” he says. “Time to do some growing up. I've got about a hundred people still in here. Help get them out.”

Boxes and suits and faceplates and doors. It occurs to Peter, only now, that whenever he is ready to open something else, that’s when Tony tries to appear.

Open and close, open and close. Tony is never there when he should be and always there when he shouldn’t.

Peter digs a nail into the underside of his thumb. “Fine.”

“Fine.” Tony engages his thrusters. The suit lifts off the ground, hovers there like Tony is waiting for Peter to move first. Tony says, “What are you waiting for?” and Peter snaps to attention.

“Nothing. Bye.”

It's right in Peter's territory. This saving people, getting them to safety thing. He moves automatically, clears rooms, clears hallways. While Tony battles the bigger danger, Peter focuses on the more intimate parts. The most important parts.

He's got the lower sub-levels evacuated within minutes.

“FRIDAY?” he asks. “Can you see anyone else down here?”

“I am detecting a heat signature inside the elevator,” says FRIDAY.

“Are you kidding me?”

“No.”

“God, it's always the elevators, isn't it?”

He pushes aside his lingering fear. There's no time for it now. The doors on this floor are closed and he jams his fingers into the small crack between them and pries them open. They scorch his palms, flesh bubbling and cracking from the heat. He can't feel it.

He's above the elevator.

“Shit,” he mutters. “Just when I thought I got out.”

“There is a hatch on top of the compartment,” FRIDAY says, but Peter knows. He's been through this before. D.C. is a map in his mind, reminding him what he did wrong, what he shouldn't do now. He moves fast. Within moments, he's balanced on the lid, jimmying open the hatch. Gears grind and click in warning. The woman inside looks up at him.

“I'm gonna get you out, okay?” he says.

She nods quickly. Peter reaches down and gets a firm grip on her extended hand. She doesn't weigh much, not to Peter anyway, but he still finds himself wheezing when he gets her free from the smokey chamber. 

Easy, simple. D.C. tells him to keep moving before thinking he's safe.

“One more,” he says, scrambling the few feet up to the floor and leaning back over the edge to pull the woman along. She coughs with him, harsh breaths that sound like they hurt, but she's able to hold herself steady, able to take Peter's directions to the stairs and get herself to the main floor.

He waits until she's gone before he rubs his eyes. “FRIDAY, anyone else?”

“The basement is clear,” FRIDAY says. “Boss wants you to get out, Mr. Parker. You're taking in too much smoke.”

“Mhmm. Okay, I –” Peter doesn't get a chance to finish his thought. With a sharp gasp, his legs lock and give way beneath him. He crumbles onto the tile. His head spins.

Open and close, open and close. Boxes and suits and faceplates and doors. Is he asleep? Has he ever been asleep?

“Mr. Parker?”

For the second time in just as many days, he hurls everything in his stomach.

“Shit,” he gasps, blinking rapidly as black spots swim through his vision.

Try and try and it isn't enough. It never is. A lie. A mistake. A scar. Heal and learn and let it go, because nothing is ever that bad. 

(and what he won't tell Ned is this: now that he's seen the interior of the Iron Man suit, he knows the truth. It's not just Tony. It's  _him_. An insomniac dream. A shell of himself, moving and talking and breathing. But open the faceplate and there's no one inside. There never has been.)

In the end, it's all just a lie. 

Peter closes his eyes and the world goes dark.

In the end, it doesn't matter.

It never did.

 


	4. Chapter 4

Something wails loud in his ears.

Before he's even really awake, before he can open his eyes, his body screams at him to move,  _move move move_ , and then he's lurching to his right, narrowly dodging an object that comes crashing down in his place.

Adrenaline pulses. He rolls to his feet and sways unsteadily.

“What the hell?” he mutters. The world is hazy and wrong, but as fast as it's gone, it's back again, and Peter's surroundings start to make sense. A cloud of white, cracked floors, ashy walls. Right. The compound is under attack.

“FRI –” he chokes on a cough. He must have passed out because there's a chunk of time missing in his memory. He doesn't know how long he's been down here. It's just another lie. Blink and you wake up. Was he asleep? Has he ever been asleep?

The wailing returns. Hairs on the back of his neck stand straight and then there's a sizzling sound like high voltage wires touching. He leaps out of the way as a blur of bright blue splits through the air.

“Oh, come on!” he says, glancing over his shoulder to see the man attacking him is clad in a full length, dark purple bodysuit and cape, more official and grown-up but equally as ridiculous as the bee guy Peter has to come to kind of like.

“Seriously?” Peter says. He swallows down the bile threatening to reappear. “Dude, I'm all for cosplay, but there's a time and a place.”

The man cocks his head to the side and narrows his eyes. “This is not a  _costume_ ,” he says.

“Well not with that attitude. A little adjusting and you could have something good.”

“You are incredibly annoying,” the man says. He snaps his whip next to his foot. It surges with electricity.

“What is that thing powered by?” Peter asks as he propels himself toward the ceiling to avoid another blow. The panels are slick under his fingers, but he clings to them with trembling limbs and draws his knees toward him, coughing again. “You gotta have some kind of transformerless multiplier circuit, but how do you keep it from overheating?”

“How are you doing that?”

“Doing what?”

The rod glows again, charging up. Peter readies himself to spring to a new location, gathers the little bit of energy he has left, but another sound fills the room, this one familiar, relieving and frustrating at the same time. It's the thrusters. It's Tony.

“Kid,” he says by way of greeting. The quick entrance takes the guy by surprise. He whirls around, lifts the handle in his fist as if to strike the Iron Man suit, but Tony is prepared. He blasts the guy straight in his midsection and sends him hurtling back into the wall.

“Thought I told you to skedaddle,” he says.

Peter lowers himself to the ground and nearly collapses with his own weight. “Yeah, I was trying to, but then your best friend made a surprise visit. What's this guy's problem?”

“Too much testosterone, probably. It's a real mood killer.”

“Sure. But why is he attacking us?”

“There's no  _us_ ,” Tony says. “It's not a group activity, it's a one-man grudge. You all just happen to be in the way.”

“Okay, but that felt a little personal. I'm pretty sure he was going to kill me.”

“Did I mention the  _in the way_  part? Let me mention it again. You were in the way.”

“You said clear the basement!”

“I also said to get out, and yet ...” Tony grabs him by the arm and pulls him forward. “Look,” he says, “You're not the only one with villains, kid.” He prods him toward the exit. “Now go.”

And Peter is a little too dizzy, a little too exhausted and spent and far away to argue, so he does. He stumbles up flights of stairs, staggers through the lobby and pushes through the front doors. Fresh air washes over him. Hundreds of people are collected outside at the far end of the front yard. He makes it halfway to them before he finds himself sliding to the ground, his legs unwilling to carry him any farther.

“Peter!” someone calls. Yards away, Bruce is treading carefully between the mass of bodies, moving closer. The solace is immediate. There are no green lines anywhere Peter can see. Just Bruce. Caring and human and  _real_.

“Dr. Banner, are you all right?” Peter asks. “Should you be here? What if – what if –”

“I'm fine, Peter.” Bruce kneels beside him. “What happened? Are you okay?”

“Um.” Peter's throat goes dry. Bruce's concern is so raw it makes something in his chest ache. He doesn't have any sense of time, but he came here to sleep, however long ago it was, and now that the adrenaline is wearing off, it's all he wants to do. Wants Bruce to find some magical combination of drugs to let him close his eyes and keep them closed and not wake up wondering if he's alive.

Bruce touches his arm. Bruce, concerned and understanding and open. No suit to hide behind.

“Peter?”

“I'm –” Peter feels another cough creeping up on him. He tries to breathe through it, but it erupts all at once, bile coming with it and spilling from his lips. He leans sideways and vomits onto the grass.

Bruce calls for a medic.

\- - -

_**May:** _

Peter, please call me.

 

_**May:** _

I've left ten messages. I need to know you're all right.

 

_**May:** _

Peter Benjamin Parker, I swear to God if you don't answer in the next five minutes, I'm driving down there.

 

_**May:** _

Peter, please. Please be all right.

 

_**Peter:** _

I'm okay. I'm so sorry. everything was super crazy here. I'm safe. I'm with Dr. Banner

 

_**May:** _

Oh thank God.

 

_**May:** _

YOU ARE GROUNDED. 

\- - -

_**guy in the chair:** _

holy shit are you okay? the attack is all over the news

May said you're with Dr. B. did he hulk out?

 

_**guy in the chair:** _

May said that was insensitive. I didn't mean it like that.

 

 _ **PeterMan**_ is typing …

 

_**PeterMan:** _

no Hulk. I'm good. will tell you about it later

 

_**PeterMan:** _

Dr. B says hi

 

 _ **guy in the chair**_ has changed  ** _PeterMan_** 's nickname to  _ **Bruce Banner's best friend**_

\- - -

He loses more time. 

Somewhere between sitting in the back of an ambulance, breathing in pure oxygen from a mask pressed against his face, his palms are examined, poked and prodded and wrapped in layers of bandages. He's asleep, but he's not asleep. He's awake, he's sure. He's just not  _here_.

The medic says his hands might scar. Peter thinks it's only right, after all these years. Two scars to May's one. Call it even. Call it fair.

He needs to sleep.

He really, really needs to sleep.

“Happy is ready to take you home,” Bruce says. “But I think you should reconsider not going to the hospital. FRIDAY says you were unconscious for at least half a minute.”

“I'm okay. It was probably just all the smoke. I feel a lot better now.”

Bruce looks unsure. “I don't know, Pete. With your insomnia and your bleeding ears, this could be a sign of something more serious.”

“And we'll figure it out,” Peter says. “Tomorrow, right? We're gonna meet up?”

“Yes, tomorrow. I'm incredibly sorry about that, but Secretary Ross has called a meeting and I'm required to –”

“I know. There's a lot of stuff to deal with here. It's bigger than me. I get it.”

“It's not bigger than you,” Bruce says. “Just way more dramatic. I want you to meet up with that doctor when you get back into the city. She'll be waiting for you. I'll get the test results from her in the morning and we'll start fixing this. Take it easy tonight, okay?”

“I will.”

“And call me if anything happens. Anything at all, you hear me? I can be there as soon as you need.”

Peter doesn't know what it is, if it's the exhaustion or the depleting sensation of every panic he's felt the last few hours, but he's overwhelmed with emotion he can't place. He nods quietly, not trusting his own voice.

Bruce grips his shoulder and gives it a gentle squeeze.

Peter needs to sleep.

He really, really,  _really_  needs to sleep.

\- - -

Morning comes before he's ready for it.

He doesn't remember much of the evening after Happy dropped him off, just vague clips of May driving him to the doctor, the feeling of latex fingers and cold devices inspecting his ears, his skull, his cheeks. He blinked and his blood was in vials on the table next to him. He blinked and everything was gone.

If he stops to think about it, he's not sure any of it was actually real. The doctor, the fight, the guy with the electric whip. Iron Man. Tony. The only real thing Peter is sure of is May crying when he first got home. May crying and telling him, “You can't do that to me, Peter. You can't,” and reminding him just how grounded he is before demanding to look at his injured hands.

He feels sick. The guilt of worrying her yet again makes his insides churn. He can't keep doing this. He can't.

“ _You know I love you, right?”_

“ _You're not the only one with villains, kid.”_

Blink and you wake up and it's all a lie.

He can't do this anymore.

\- - -

“Okay, I want you to lay back now. Try to get comfortable.”

Peter leans into the pillow and stares up at the patterned ceiling. The room is small, much smaller than the lab Peter is used to seeing Bruce work in, but they are making due. All the researchers have been relocated to the first floor of the compound, added security keeping the extra top-secret projects under wraps. Equipment from the basement levels have been moved upstairs while the lower floors undergo repair. Peter can hear workers pounding away below them.

“This, uh … this won't collapse, will it? The building?” he asks, and it's only Bruce's pinched expression that makes him realize his voice is shaking. He wets his lips and offers him a smile. “I mean, I just have had that happen before, so I'm trying to learn from my mistakes, you know?”

“You've been in a building that has collapsed?”

“No. Um. Kind of. Never mind. It's – it's nothing.”

“It doesn't sound like nothing,” Bruce says. He grabs the syringe from the table next to him and flicks it, watches for bubbles. “The building won't fall. We've had contractors here all night. Tony wouldn't let anyone back in here if it wasn't safe.”

(but Tony isn't real, is he? He never has been. Hidden behind faceplates and fancy cars and designer clothes. Take it all away and there's nothing left.)

“Peter, your heart is beating pretty fast,” Bruce says. “Are you all right?”

“Sorry, sorry. I – sorry.”

“If you don't feel safe, we can find somewhere else. I'm sure Helen Cho could offer us a space somewhere. I can give her a call.”

“No, it's okay,” says Peter. “I'm okay. We're already here and all your stuff is here. Let's … let's just do it.”

Whatever is happening on Peter's face makes Bruce hesitate a moment longer. The beeping from the machine monitoring Peter's heart rate slows with his forced breaths. His head is beginning to ache.

“Please, Dr. Banner.”

Bruce sighs. “All right, all right. We'll keep going. But if anything changes –”

“I'll let you know. I promise.”

“Good.” Bruce scoots his chair forward. This close, Peter can see how rumpled his plaid shirt is, can see the dark circles under his eyes, the stray hairs sticking out. The meeting with the secretary must have been rough, but Bruce hasn't said anything about it.

“Are you okay, Dr. Banner?” Peter asks.

Bruce pauses again, perplexed. “Of course I am. Why do you ask?”

“You just look … I dunno, tired. Did everything go okay yesterday?”

“Ah. Well, that's a little complicated. Be lucky there are things you don't have to worry about yet.”

_You're not the only one with villains._

“I'm going to administer the shot now,” Bruce says before Peter can think of something to respond with. “This is a higher dose than the one Tony gave you so you should be asleep longer. I'm going to run some tests while you're under. FRIDAY and I will keep monitor over your vitals to make sure nothing happens.”

“Okay.”

“Are you ready?”

“The most ready I've ever been.”

Finally, Bruce smirks, the tension ebbing a little from his body. He swabs a spot on Peter's forearm with alcohol and wipes it clean. Then he levels the needle and touches Peter's skin with it. Peter doesn't feel it at all. He only knows it's over with when he hears the ting of the syringe being set down again on the metal plate it came from.

Bruce says, “It'll set in in a minute.”

Peter nods, much too fast, and pushes himself further into the bed. He can't explain it, but a pang of fear is resting heavy in his chest, his sternum heaving with the same panic he felt when Tony jabbed him the first time without his consent. This is different, he knows. He asked for this. He signed up for this. But he can't explain it, can't identify the charge in the air, the snap of electricity zapping through his bones like the whip cracking down beside him.

Try and try and try.

“Peter,” Bruce says calmly. “Breathe nice and slow.”

Peter inhales a mouthful and lets it out. The medicine filters in, easing the sharpness, taking the edge off. His limbs start to feel heavy. His eyelids droop.

The last thing Bruce says is, “You're all right,” and then Peter knows nothing.

\- - -

He wakes up.

This is how it starts, how it ends. He wakes up and the room is quiet, almost still except for Bruce's small movements at the table. Pain pushes at the back of his eyes. When he opens his mouth, it feels like someone has shoved a dozen cotton balls inside.

“D'r Bn'ner?” he mumbles.

Bruce turns around fast enough Peter's brain can't process it. By the time he realizes he's been asked a question, Bruce is asking another.

“Can you hear me, Peter?”

Peter clears his throat. “Hmm? Um, yeah. Yeah, I hear you.”

Bruce is close now, right beside him, two fingers pressed into his wrist to check his pulse.

“Did … did we do it?” Peter asks, propping himself up on his elbows. “Did it work?”

Bruce's entire expression changes, his voice going soft. “Pete, you've only been asleep for an hour.”

A knot twists in Peter's stomach. He blinks once and his eyes fill with tears and spill over onto his cheeks.

“Aw, Peter,” Bruce says as he reaches for a box of tissues.

“No, no, I'm – god, I'm sorry.” Peter wipes at his face. He props himself up against his pillow. “This is so dumb. I don't even – I'm not sad. I don't know why –”

“It's okay,” says Bruce.

Peter takes a tissue from him. It soaks through within seconds, the warm and salty liquid making him feel like he's drowning.

“I just ...” he says uselessly.

“I know.”

“It's so dumb. I'm – I'm sorry.”

“It's not dumb,” Bruce says. “You're sleep deprived. It makes sense you'd be upset. Your central nervous system is all out of sorts. It takes a toll.”

“Right, yeah, I ...” Peter still can't explain it. He's here, but he's not here, and something inside him feels terribly wrong. Broken. Irreplaceable. Missing. Something empty is creeping up on him. He has a feeling it's strong enough to devour him right here for everyone to see.

A knock on the door draws his attention back to reality.

“Knock, knock,” says a voice that sounds similar to Tony. “I have the –” It breaks off all at once, because it  _is_ Tony, and it's clear by the way he pauses in the entrance he didn't expect Peter to be awake yet. No one did.

“Banner,” he says, “You're not supposed to make the kid cry.”

“To-ny,” Bruce says cautiously, drawing out his name in warning. “Now might not be the best time.”

Tony throws his hands up. “Am I gonna be the bad guy forever? Are we forgetting that part when I let the kid help evacuate everyone?”

“ _Tony_.”

“What? He did a good job. I can offer encouragement. It's not all sarcasm and debauchery with me, you know.” 

“Tony, I'm serious –” Bruce continues, but that emptiness seizes Peter's heart, thrums painfully in his veins. The panic is back, masked as anger and fatigue and everything not right. Tony is trying to play nice, but Peter doesn't want nice. He wants to fight. He wants to scream until it doesn't hurt anymore.

Tony is never there. Not when it matters, not even when it doesn't.

“You only let me help cause I called you out,” Peter says. “Every time I try to help, you ignore me until it's too late.”

Tony lifts his eyebrows. Bruce falls silent. “I wasn't ignoring you, kid.”

“Oh really? Remember when you ignored me about your jet? And look who ended up saving you then. Me.”

“A, saved you first. B, I didn't realize we were having some kind of competition.”

“I didn't realize my life is so inconvenient to you.”

“Peter,” Bruce says softly.

It's too late. Peter doesn't want to hear it. He just wants to be mad.

Tony gapes at him, runs his hands over his face. “Jesus Christ. I'm gonna have an aneurysm. My insides are gonna explode,” he says. “Is this some teenage rebellion thing? Do I need to give you the 'I'm just trying to keep you safe' speech? There are things out there you don't understand, kid. You wanna put on your big boy pants and play with the rest of us and you're not ready.”

“Says who?”

“Says me! Look,  _I'm_  not even ready. You head out in your suit and you motor-mouth your way through common street criminals like it's no big deal, but you're  _my_  responsibility out there.”

“I didn't ask to be!”

Tony presses his lips together. Here it is, again, silence between them, an open portal, an endless amount of possibilities. Blink and you wake up and there's nothing inside.

It's a lie. Nothing can reach him. But he's trying to reach  _something_.

"God." Tony heaves out a loud sigh. There's no anger in his tone, just a tired air of defeat. “You know, I carried a missile into space,” he says. “To save New York. They were gonna blow up everyone without even a second thought and I did what I knew needed to be done.”

Peter stares at him, wipes at another tear leaking down his cheek.

“It has haunted me ever since,” Tony says. “And I know you don't understand. You're so sure you can handle whatever the universe throws your way. But you  _don't know_  what's out there. I'm trying to keep you from carrying your own missile, kid. And if you're gonna hate me for it, then fine. But I won't make that same mistake again.”

Peter blanches.

Open and close, open and close. Boxes and suits and faceplates and doors. It isn't enough. He can try all he wants and it isn't enough.

(because Tony might not be real, but then neither is Peter. An insomniac dream. Make the calls and disappear.)

"I ..."

"Forget it," Tony says, and he's out the door before Peter can take it back.

Open and close. There's nothing left inside Peter

Maybe there never has been.

\- - -

Bruce can't give him more sedatives, so he sends Peter home with the promise they'll give it another go tomorrow after everything has cleared from his system.

“I think we're looking at a symptom of stress,” he says. “If you can – er, figure out where all this is coming from, we can target the source. Until then, we'll treat what we can, all right? I'm giving you some home remedies to try, as well as supplements to take. We'll try to get your body producing more serotonin on its own before we go for a more intense option.”

They don't talk about his outburst. They don't have to. Peter doesn't care. It's what he wanted. To be angry. To yell. But even so, there's a part of him, a part he can't deny, that knows being this mad for this long is almost as exhausting as not sleeping. He can't hold onto this forever. He can't carry this missile much longer before it explodes.

He can't do this anymore.

Back at home, he drops the bag of pills from Bruce onto his desk. Beside it, the gift from Strange glows bright. Peter snatches it and sits on his bed, rubbing his thumb over the delicate lines decorating the box. The magic from it hums peacefully. It makes him feel warm. Safe. He was going to wait until his birthday to open it, but something inside is calling to him, telling him it's time. Do it now. Open anything just to make sure there's still something inside. Not everything can be empty. Something exists somewhere.

Holding the box tight against him, he makes his way to his window and peeks outside to make sure no one is looking before he scales the building up to the roof. Strange told him he could only open the gift once.

“ _Use it wisely.”_

Under a starlit sky, legs crossed beneath him, Peter extends the box out and unlatches the front clasp. A sudden sense of ease washes over him. The lid opens on its own, sparks of yellow drifting out. A piece of paper unfolds itself and rolls upward, revealing a note.

 _ **You have ten minutes**_ , it reads.  ** _Spend them as you wish._**

Frowning, Peter scans over it again, waiting for something else to happen, for more words to appear and explain what he's supposed to do. 

And then, behind him, a long forgotten dream speaks.

“Peter?”

It can't be.

It can't.

Slowly, he glances over his shoulder. His blood turns to ice.

“U... Uncle Ben?”

(he's trying and trying and trying and it isn't enough.)

Open and close. Open and close. 

Finally, there's something inside.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This scene (and the build up to this scene throughout the story) is based on the comic issue where Strange gives Peter a gift that allows him to talk to his uncle for a few minutes. I drew Ben's dialogue heavily from that scene, so if you've read that issue before, it'll probably sound familiar :)

Peter stands stunned for a moment too long. He's sure he's hallucinating. He  _must_  be. Blink and wake up and it's all a lie. Nothing has been real for a long time, just a copy of itself scanned too many times, not quite clear enough to be the original anymore.

“I...” He tries to bring moisture back to his mouth. He blinks and he's still here. “Am I dead?”

A big grin takes over Ben's face. He looks exactly the same as the last night Peter saw him. Same clothes, same haircut, same loving glint in his eye.

“No, I'm fairly sure you're not dead,” he says.

“Then how – what is – how're you here? Is it really – how is this happening?”

“It's odd,” says Ben. “I don't quite know. I was just coming back to May and I heard … well, it doesn't matter now, does it? What matters is you're here.” He takes a step forward, reaches out like he's about to grab Peter's arms and then stops. “Oh. What happened to your hands?”

“What?” Peter barely glances down at his bandaged palms. His heart pounds loudly in his ears. “I … just … just, uh, just an accident. It's not … it's not that bad.”

Ben's fingers wrap around his biceps and Peter holds his breath. He expects it to hurt, excepts the hole inside him to swell in response, to finally swallow him up like he's been waiting for it to do. Every mistake, every accident, every scar. Take him whole and leave nothing behind.

But Ben's grip is firm and warm and steadying, grounding,  _real_. When Peter's eyes sting this time, it's not with the same ache and exhaustion he's felt for the last few weeks. It's with a strange sense of relief.

He throws his arms around Ben and holds onto him like a lifeline, wasting their precious time trying to find words.

“I'm … god, Ben, I'm so glad to see you,” he says.

“I'm glad to see you too, Pete.”

“I don't – I don't know where to begin. There's so much I want to say. So many things I want to apologize for. I –”

“Apologize?” Ben asks, pushing him back at arm's length. “You have nothing to apologize to me for.”

Peter bites his lip. “But … what happened. I wasn't there for you. I could have –”

“Pete, we all make mistakes. It's part of life. It's a really important part of life.” Ben gives him a soft smile. “You know I've never blamed you for anything. We're all just trying here. It's never easy, but it isn't your fault.”

“But you don't understand,” Peter says. “I have these … I have these abilities now. And I can do amazing things. And I could have – I  _should_  have protected you – I should have been there and I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.”

“It's okay,” says Ben. “I want you to know it's okay, Pete. Whatever you think you've done that's so bad, it's not your fault. You want to know how I know that?”

“How?”

Ben taps Peter's chest with his finger. “Because of this. This is the heart of a good man, of a good son. I know you, and I know you'd never do anything on purpose to hurt someone. You know that too, right? Do you know how proud I am of the person you've become?”

Guilt pinches something in Peter right below Ben's touch. This is it. He should tell him the truth. He didn't tell May and he didn't tell Bruce or Tony or even Ned. They've all been too far away.  _He_  has been too far away. But he's here now, if only for this moment, if only as a copy, and this is it. This is everything.

He looks to where the box has fallen, sees it glowing blue, and says, “I miss you, Ben. Sometimes … sometimes I miss you so much I feel like I'm drowning. I feel like I'm doing everything wrong.”

“The only way you could be doing everything wrong is if you didn't reach for the kind of life you deserve. If you settled for less because you were afraid of reaching for more. If you walked away from what you believe in your heart. Have you done that?”

Peter shakes his head.

“Then you're doing everything I ever could have wanted from you,” Ben says. “I am so, so proud of you. I want you to know that, Peter. I always have been.”

An overload of emotion clutches Peter's throat, makes his eyes burn even worse. He can't find anything to say, so he just nods again. On the ground below him, the box turns red. A warning, an alert. Time is counting down.

“I've almost forgotten,” says Ben cheerfully. “Your birthday! It's soon. Do you have any plans?”

Peter lets out a watery laugh and runs his hand over his mouth. “Uh, Ned wants to have a luau.”

“Where would you even have a luau?”

“That's what I said!”

Ben smiles again. “Well, whatever you do, I'm sure it will be great. Just promise you'll make it big and way too extravagant. And promise you'll have fun. For me.”

“I will,” Peter says, his words catching. “I wish you could be there.”

“I'll be there,” Ben says. “I'm always there, one way or another. I'm always with you. Don't ever forget that, okay?”

“Okay.”

Ben opens his arms wide and pulls Peter into another embrace. It's warm and right. Not a copy, the original. The real Ben, the real Peter. And right now, it's enough.

Try and try and try.

To Ben, it's enough.

“I love you, you know,” Ben says.

“I love you too.”

The box strobes, sending out another, final warning. The minutes have passed without Peter realizing it. Ben tightens his grip.

“Goodbye, Pete. Take care of May for me.”

“I will,” Peter says. “I promise. I will.”

And then, just like that, it's over. The lid slams itself closed, the colors disappear, and Peter is left standing on a roof in the middle of Queens, alone.

Ben is gone.

\- - -

“May?”

From where she's perched on the edge of the couch, May looks up, her face drawn in concern. Peter can hear the hoarseness in his voice. He tries to balance himself.

“Is it … is it too late to change my mind about the birthday thing? Maybe have that party after all?”

May says, “Of course it's not too late,” and everything Peter has been holding inside, all the anger, the frustration, the exhaustion and the sleepless nights and the lies and the fear, come boiling to the surface and overflow. Like a band stretching too far for too long, it snaps.

He bursts into tears. May doesn't ask any questions. She just holds him and tells him it will be okay.

"I love you so much," she says. 

Band-aids and ointment and kisses. May can fix anything, because nothing is ever that bad. Stitch it up and joke about it later. 

One day, they'll laugh about all their scars. Today, Peter will let them ache.

\- - -

 _ **Bruce Banner**_ :

I got your results back from the blood draw you did. I ran some tests and it turns out you do have a strange reaction to the repellent you were sprayed with. Tony would like you to bring the suit with you so he can run some upgrades. Do you mind if Happy picks you up a little earlier tomorrow? I know it's a Saturday, but I hope you won't mind. Don't worry about Tony either. I'll make sure to set some boundaries.

 

_**Peter:** _

That's fine. Not like I'll be sleeping in anyway. Ha. That was a joke. Get it? Okay, I'll stop.

 

_**Bruce Banner:** _

 LOL. I'll see you tomorrow.

 -Bruce

\- - -

In the morning, Happy is waiting outside Peter's apartment with a cup of coffee and a tired scowl.

“Tell me you're getting your license soon so I don't have to keep waking up at the crack of dawn,” he says. 

Peter slides into the back seat and closes the car door. “I don't really think you  _want_  me to have a license. I'm not exactly the best driver.”

“Hey, as long as you don't crash, what do I care?”

“Well, already beat you to that one.”

Happy meets his gaze in the rear-view mirror. “You've crashed a car? Seriously?”

“It was an accident.”

“No shit. Most people don't crash their cars on purpose.”

Peter shrugs. He glances out the window, watches the rain soak the sidewalk. He's tired, but it's different. It's an empty sort of exhaustion, the release of tense muscles and loose limbs, like someone has deflated all the air inside him.

“You all right, kid?”

The radio plays a quiet melody, a song unfamiliar to Peter. He listens for words he recognizes.

“I don't know,” he admits.

“I know we're not exactly close,” says Happy. “But if you need someone to talk to, I'm more than happy to find them for you.”

A delirious laughter bubbles from deep inside Peter's chest and doesn't stop until they're nearly at the compound.

Happy smirks.

\- - -

“If you look here at this sample, you can see the antibodies reacting to the stimulate,” Bruce says, moving out of the way to let Peter peer into the microscope. “It's fascinating. I ran the sample against a common house spider to compare results. Obviously you have a stronger defense against the poison, but the way your blood reacts is very similar. In higher doses, it could probably make you quite ill. I don't think we'll need to worry about that though.”

“Never say never,” Peter says. He pushes away from the table and leans against the side of the bed. “What about my ears? Did you find out anything?”

Bruce slides his glasses off and folds them into his hand. “Dr. Lee said all your tests came back normal. There's no sign of any type of damage. Have you noticed a pattern to the ringing you're hearing? Does anyone else ever hear it?”

“I don't think so. It happened once with Ned and he said he didn't hear anything. Karen couldn't hear it either. But … I don't know. It just happens kind of randomly, you know?”

“Hmm.” Bruce twists his lips. “Tell me about this sense you have. The one that alerts you to danger? What does it feel like?”

“Um. I dunno, it's like, you ever feel like someone is standing behind you? All the hairs on your arms stand up and you feel kind of tingly? It's weird. I just  _know_  something is gonna happen. It's been really, uh, sharp lately though, the few times it actually works.”

“Sharp how?”

“More like electricity, I guess?”

“Does it ever hurt?”

“Not really,” says Peter. “One time it did, but that was back around when I first got bit.”

Bruce sets his glasses aside, fumbles through the supplies he's set out. “Interesting,” he says. “Have you considered that maybe with your lack of sleep, your senses are overreacting? You said it hasn't been detecting danger very well lately. What if maybe you've overwhelmed it and it's causing your body to react in odd ways?”

“Is that possible?”

“With your amount of insomnia, I'd say a lot is possible. Could be the largest factor to explain why you've been throwing up too. That, and stress. It's a scary combination.”

“Okay, so, yay, I'm a mess. But we can fix it, right?”

“You're not a mess," Bruce says. "But fixing is the goal. We just gotta help you get some sleep first.”

Peter rubs the inside of his elbow. Already he feels like he could fall asleep, but he knows even if he does, he won't stay that way for long. There's something else still. Something he's missing. Something unfinished.

“You haven't injected the kid yet, have you?” Happy asks, making Peter jolt and spin around to face the doorway.

Bruce looks his way. “Not yet,” he says.

“Tony wants to see him.”

“I told him –”

“Don't shoot the messenger,” says Happy. “He said it's important.”

Bruce sighs and sets his tools down. “It's up to you, Pete.”

Peter thinks back to yesterday. It feels like a million years ago now, like an entire lifetime has come and gone. Blink and you wake up. None of it is real.

“ _I'm trying to keep you from carrying your own missile, kid.”_

He can't carry this anymore.

“Uh, yeah, okay,” he says. “It's … it's fine. We didn't really leave off in the best place anyway. I guess there's always room to make it worse.”

He follows Happy to the second floor and past the quarters of the Avengers who still live in the compound. Once upon a time, he dreamed of living here. Dreamed of being part of this team, of going on missions and saving the world with the very people he admires. But then, somewhere along the way, he grew up. He realized nothing is ever that clean and easy. Half the team is gone. And maybe Tony is right. Maybe there are things he doesn't understand yet.

“He's in there,” Happy says, bringing him to a doorway. He types in a code on the small monitor to his right and pushes open the door. “Try not to kill each other. It's a lot of paperwork I don't want to fill out.”

Peter steps inside. He's never been in this room before, but he's seen pictures of one like it. It looks like the workspace from Tony's old home, the one in Malibu. Peter saw it on the news when it was blown up. “Reports are saying Tony Stark is dead,” announcers told the world. Before and after photos showed the place for what it once was, what it became. Peter always remembered how beautiful it was.

“Kid,” Tony greets from where he's hunched over a bench.

“Mr. Stark.”

“You can come in, you know. I don't bite.”

Peter takes a few more steps and glances around. Despite his lack of energy, despite the anger he wants to feel, he finds himself distracted by the technology around him. Broken pieces of Iron Man suits, prototypes of shields and blasters.

“Cool, huh?” Tony asks. He wipes his hands on a rag and stands up, cracking his neck. “Wanna see the original design of your suit?” He pulls it up on a screen before Peter can answer. Peter steps closer to look at the image.

“Whoa.”

“I had to adjust a few things,” Tony says. “Tinker around a bit. First drafts are a bitch.”

“Yeah.” Peter fidgets with one of his bandages. “Um, Mr. Stark, did you … did you want to talk to me about something?”

“Are you eager to get out of here? I didn't know if Bruce would even let you come see me. You guys have like a weird pact thing going on now. Like a secret club I'm not invited to.”

"That's not – " Peter doesn't want to do this. He doesn't have the willpower to fight anymore.

Shaking his head, he mumbles, "I'll see you later, Mr. Stark," and makes his way back toward the door.

“Okay, wait,” Tony says. “Kid – come on – hold up –  _Peter_.”

Peter comes to a halt, closes his eyes and takes in a breath before turning around.

Tony sinks back against his desk. “Look, my bad, all right?” he says. “I messed up. I know that. But kid, I don't know what you want from me. I'm not good at this – whatever this is. My dad was never there for me and I'm trying to break the cycle, but I don't have a lot of experience to work from. It's kind of a catch-22.”

“I –” Peter presses his fingers into his temples and exhales slowly. This is it, the space between them, the open portal, the endless possibilities. One wrong move and everything is gone. “Mr. Stark, I don't want you to be my  _dad_. I just …”

“You just what?”

“I want you to listen to me,” Peter says. “No,  _no,_ I want to  _know_  you're listening to me. And not after the fact. Not after you come in and save the day. I get that you're busy and you have all these adult things to deal with and you can't always be there when I call – and maybe I call too much about unimportant stuff and I can work on that, but you can't … you can't just make me a suit and take me to Germany to fight with you and then bring me back here and pretend like I don't exist.”

Because that's it, isn't it? Tony is never there. Not when it matters, not even when it doesn't. And Peter  _needs_ him to be there. Needs to know he's not alone. Needs to know he's not doing everything wrong.

He needs to open the faceplate and know there's something inside.

“Okay,” Tony says.

Peter blinks. “Okay?”

“Would you like a better word? I hear you, kid. I've got your beta notes. It wasn't fair of me to do what I did. I should have communicated better. I get that. And I'll work on it. You just gotta hang in there with me. Even though I have more PhDs than Mr. Everyone-Look-At-My-Degrees-I'm-So-Smart out there, I don't know everything. I'm trying to figure it all out.”

And Peter gets it now. Hidden behind metal suits and fancy cars and designer clothes. Take it all away and there's nothing left. It's not that Tony isn't real, it's that Tony doesn't know how to be something people can see.

“I  _am_  sorry, kid,” Tony says. “For causing you this much stress.”

There was a time when Tony was dead. That week when the world mourned him, when the before and after pictures showed only rubble left behind. Carry the missile into space. Save the world and disappear.

Peter says, “It wasn't all you. It wasn't all your fault. I'm … I'm sorry too.”

“You don't have to apologize to me, Pete. I'm the one who screwed up here.”

“ _You know I've never blamed you for anything.”_

Tears prickle at his eyes.

“You look like you're gonna tip over,” Tony says. “You wanna sit down? My reflexes aren't as fast as they used to be. I can't guarantee I'll catch you if you fall.”

But Peter doesn't need someone to catch him. He just needs someone to be there to help him get back up.

And this is it. Something settles between them, the portal closing, the suit opening. While Peter situates himself on the couch near the back wall, Tony rambles off information about new designs he's working on, about the man with the electric whip, about some of his more evil villains. At some point, the words morph together, merge into a gentle murmur, the sound making Peter sleepy, his eyelids too heavy to hold.

Open and close, open and close. It's time for him to set everything down.

He drifts. And, this time, when he falls asleep, he dreams. And hours and hours and hours go by. And Tony throws a blanket over him, stuffs a pillow under his head. In a daze, Peter hears him mutter, "FRI, let Banner know I've got him. You know what else to do," and the lights go dim. He sleeps. He sleeps like he's never slept before.

And it's not perfect, it's not a fix-all situation. There are still things to work on, still bridges Peter and Tony need to cross.

But right now, they're trying.

And it's enough.

\- - -

“Hey, Karen, how are you liking the upgrades?”

“Good afternoon, Peter. They are great. Would you like to try some out? Mr. Stark has installed a lot of new features.”

“Maybe later,” Peter says, webbing himself to the side of a building. “Let's deal with whatever this thing is now. You got a read on it?”

“It appears to be the sibling of the robot you fought in Brooklyn. From what I can tell, someone was able to recreate the technology and build a new robot. Mr. Stark and company are on the scene now.”

“Awesome. Patch me through to the comm, will you?”

“Patching through.”

“Hey, kid,” Tony says.

“Hey, Mr. Stark.”

Peter sees the Iron Man suit up in the distance, Iron Patriot standing on the street next to him. Peter drops into place beside him, looks up at the towering robot.

“You recommend a Disney movie and I'm quitting,” Rhodey says.

“ _Pixar_ ,” Tony corrects. "Christ, Rhodey. How many times do we have to go over this?"

Peter smiles.

It's not perfect. Not yet. It's just better.

(and this is what he won't tell Ned. Tony might not always be in the suit, but one way or another, he's always there. Peter is learning this.)

“You have a message,” Karen says. “From 'guy in the chair.' He wants you to know he's decided against the luau. He wants to rent out a theme park instead.”

“Of course he does.” Peter slides in a new web cartridge and stretches his arms. “Tell him Dr. Banner doesn't do theme parks. And let's put a break on the messages, okay? We've got work to do.”

Tony and Rhodey take off, thrusters engaging, weapons whirling.

And here they are again, fighting a one-story tall mechanical robot in the middle of Brooklyn when Peter shoots a web and swings over its head and says, “You guys know the second  _Incredibles_  movie is coming out soon?”

Through the comm system, Rhodey sighs.

They're trying. 

It starts like this.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys for sticking with me while I get my account (and my life) back together <3


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